I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.

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

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?

We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.