Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

Events Appear Sad, Pleasant, Or Painful, Not Because They Are So In Reality, But Because We Believe Them To Be So And The Light In Which We Look At Them Depends Upon Our Own Judgment.

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

Books Never Pall On Me. They Discourse With Us, They Take Counsel With Us, And Are United To Us By A Certain Living Chatty Familiarity. And Not Only Does Each Book Inspire The Sense That It Belongs To Its Readers, But It Also Suggests The Name Of Others, And One Begets The Desire Of The Other.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances