Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious.
Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.
George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
As we to the brutes, poets are to us.
Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.
But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.