A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Procrastination is the thief of time

Procrastination is the thief of time Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene

Wonder is involuntary praise

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame Earth's highest station ends in "Here he lies" and "Dust to dust" concludes the noblest songs

All men think all men mortal, but themselves

By night an atheist half believes in a God

Be wise with speed a fool at forty is a fool indeed