Statues and pictures and verse may be grand, But they are not the Life for which they stand.

Among the changing months, May stands confest The sweetest, and in fairest colors dressed.

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.

Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, which cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet and artist has actually expressed

For life is but a dream whose shapes return, some frequently, some seldom, some by night and some by day.

The world rolls round forever like a mill; it grinds out death and life and good and ill; it has no purpose, heart or mind or will.