Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.