Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

There is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been!

A human being can stand any amout of pain.

Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.