Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of Joy.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so," Uttered by friends, those prophets of the past.

If from society we learn to live, 'Tis Solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers.

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain.

Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust.

He who ascends to mountain tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below.

In itself, a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour.

Time! the Corrector where our judgments err, The test of Truth, Love-sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists.

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion.