Remorse weeps tears of blood.
That gracious thing, made up of tears and light.
The form of truth will bear exposure, as well as that of beauty herself.
Oh Sleep! it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole, to Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, that slid into my soul.
Why is it that so many of us persist in thinking that autumn is a sad season? Nature has merely fallen asleep, and her dreams must be beautiful if we are to judge by her countenance.
Force yourself to reflect on what you read, paragraph by paragraph.
And they three passed over the white sands, between the rocks, silent as the shadows.
Ignorance seldom vaults into knowledge...
All nature seems at work.
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin is pride that apes humility.
The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she.
Our quaint metaphysical opinions, in an hour of anguish, are like playthings by the bedside of a child deathly sick.
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends.
Humor is consistent with pathos, whilst wit is not.
A people are free in proportion as they form their own opinions.
A Falsehood is, in one sense, a dead thing; but too often it moves about, galvanized by self-will, and pushes the living out of their seats.
Oh worse than everything, is kindness counterfeiting absent love.
Poor little Foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face.
As it must not, so genius cannot be lawless; for it is even that constitutes its genius – the power of acting creatively under laws of its own origination.
What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole, its body brevity, and wit its soul.