The tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud.

Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.

The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits Like those of angels, short, and far between.

How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.

Affectation is certain deformity; by forming themselves on fantastic models, the young begin with being ridiculous, and often end in being vicious.

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:—this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.

How shocking must thy summons be, O death, to him that is at ease in his possessions! who, counting on long years of pleasure here, is quite unfurnished for the world to come.

Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse unknown before!

Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.

When it draws near to witching time of night.

All the beauty lies in the sacredness of the heart.

Even feigning surprise, pretending it was unexpected and saying a ritual thanks, is surely wiser than just expecting everything so carelessly.

The stars glittered in the sky and as the number of people at the party grew there were merging conversations and laughter and bodies moving in outlines around the kegs of beer in a curtsy of youth.

I like to be sad once in a while. You need it for your equilibrium.

And if there is not any such thing as a long time, nor the rest of your lives, nor from now on, but there is only now, why then now is the thing to praise and I am very happy with it.

It is very important what not to do.

You know, you really do choose your existence in a way.

I don't write poetry for the New Yorker. My poems appear in the Nation, mostly.

I like to write music for fun. That's my hustle, my grind, my means of stayin' alive, and it's also my recreation, too.

So I fancy my Muse says, when I wish to die, Oh no, Oh no, we are not yet friends enough, And Virtue also says: We are not yet friends enough.