The world is a great ocean, upon which we encounter more tempestuous storms than calms.

Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted.

I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.

In the marginalia ... we talk only to ourselves; we therefore talk freshly - boldly - originally - with abandonment - without conceit.

We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses?

Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. [...]