Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

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

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

How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.