Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech; Man walks within these groves of symbols, each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.

I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.

Nothing is as tedious as the limping days, When snowdrifts yearly cover all the ways, And ennui, sour fruit of incurious gloom, Assumes control of fate’s immortal loom

On the day when a young writer corrects his first proof-sheet he is as proud as a schoolboy who has just got his first dose of pox.

Life swarms with innocent monsters.

There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.

The will to work must dominate, for art is long and time is brief.