A Peasant Can No More Help Believing

The Idea Of Duty--that Recognition Of Something To Be Lived For Beyond The Mere Satisfaction Of Self--is To The Moral Life What The Addition Of A Great Central Ganglion Is To Animal Life.

Your Trouble's Easy Borne When Everybody Gives It A Lift For You.

In Poor Rosamond's Mind There Was Not Room Enough For Luxuries To Look Small In.

What Novelty Is Worth That Sweet Monotony Where Everything Is Known, And Loved Because It Is Known?

For Years After Lydgate Remembered The Impression Produced In Him By This Involuntary Appeal-this Cry From Soul To Soul, Without Other Consciousness Than Their Moving With Kindred Natures In The Same Embroiled Medium, The Same Troublous Fitfully-illuminated Life.