We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.

Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

There are two bodies - the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call "death," is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

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

The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.