But words are things; and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

[Poetry] is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! I thank thee, night! for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate; and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause for breath, And love itself have rest.

Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.

With just enough of learning to misquote.

Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.