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A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.

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All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.

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Poetry destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign, and redeem: and w...more

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The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter - in the eye.

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Some have won a wild delight,By daring wilder sorrow;Could I gain thy love to-night,I'd hazard death to-morrow.

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To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,—Is such my future fate?The morn was dreary, must the eveBe also desolate?

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Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,Its gloom and scarcity;Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,Toiled quiet Memory.’Tis she that from each transient...more