The reader who is illuminated is, in a real sense, the poem.

It is better to obey the mysterious direction, without any fuss, when it points to a new road, however strange that road may be. There is probably as much reason for it, if the truth were known, as for anything else.

Most of us, I suppose, are a little nervous of the sea. No matter what its smiles may be, we doubt its friendship.

The World is what we think it is. If we can change our thoughts, we can change the world.

There is precious little hope to be got out of whatever keeps us industrious, but there is a chance for us whenever we cease work and become stargazers.

I do not love the sea. The look of it is disquieting. There is something in the very sound of it that stirs the premonition felt while we listen to noble music; we become inexplicably troubled.

Light comes to us unexpectedly and obliquely. Perhaps it amuses the gods to try us. They want to see whether we are asleep.