Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade.

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too!

Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful: The seeds of godlike power are in us still: Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will.

That sweet city [Oxford] with her dreaming spires.

That which in England we call the middle class is in America virtually the nation.

The best poetry will be found to have a power of forming, sustaining, and delighting us, as nothing else can.

The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.

The day in its hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm.

The difference between genuine poetry and the poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their school, is briefly this: their poetry is conceived and composed in their wits, genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the soul.