Breathes there the nun. with soul so dead, / Who never to himself hath said, / This is my own, my native land! / Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn’d / As home his footsteps he hath turn'd / From wandering on a foreign strand!

I must admit that at one point in my life I get jealous over nothing and it causes me sleepless night.

This world is a dream within a dream; and as we grow older, each step is an awakening.

Thus up the margin of the lake, / Between the precipice and the brake, / O'er stock and rock their race they take.

And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, / Trembled but dimpled not for joy; / The mountain shadows on her breast / Were neither broken nor at rest;

There is a vulgar incredulity, which in historical matters, as well as in those of religion, finds it easier to doubt than to examine.

Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last and final awakening

A man may with more impunity be guilty of an actual breach, either of real good breeding or good morals than appear ignorant of the most minute points of fashionable etiquette.

The faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest.

O, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.