Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Children are never too tender to be whipped. Like tough beefsteaks, the more you beat them, the more tender they become.

To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.

I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.

In efforts to soar above our nature, we invariably fall below it.