The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing.

This dull product of a scoffer's pen.

Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

The cattle are grazing,Their heads never raising;There are forty feeding like one!

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.