Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

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

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.