One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.

Small service is true service, while it lasts.