I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.
The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?
Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.