There’s naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
There is no instinct like the heart.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone.
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted, – they have torn me, – and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
The heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
Smiles form the channel of a future tear.
Romances I ne’er read like those I have seen.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean – roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin – his control stops with the shore.
Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure.
Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
