History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
Death is the veil which those who live call life They sleep, and it is lifted.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness.
Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.