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I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?
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Absence, with all its pains, is, by this charming moment, wiped away.
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The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there...
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Ingratitude is treason to mankind.
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Once in a stately passion / I cried with desperate grief,/ 'O Lord, my heart is black with guile,/ Of sinners I am chief.'
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