Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

Of writing many books there is no end.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.