I stood / Among them, but not of them; in a shroud / Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; / A palace and a prison on each hand.

Words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think

The Cardinal is at his wit's end -- it is true that he had not far to go.

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire -- in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep