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

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.

The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.