Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.