There is that in me which I would pour out.

Oh! why is it that the noblest actions of humanity speak not to my soul?
All life is inadequate--but not in the sense of the world.

I would joyfully be silent, obscure, dead to all the world, if this alone which is in me had life.

I ask not for name, riches, external conditions of delight or splendor.

No; the meanest of all would be heaven to me, if this inward impulse had action, lived itself out.