Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.