As virtuous men pass mildly away And whisper to their souls, to goe, While some of their friends doe say, The breath goes now, and some say, no: So let us melt, and make no noise...

Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the center, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself his own dungeon.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.

He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire

A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere...

Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?

He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction, a look of hatred unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

The face of all the world is changed, I think Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul.

So each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, or at least some remote and distant hope....

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest. The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart

The Dying Christian to His Soul (1712) -Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Stanza 1.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.