Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what prospect life offers to another?

When I stand in a library where is all the recorded wit of the world, but none of the recording, a mere accumulated, and not trulycumulative treasure; where immortal works stand side by side with anthologies which did not survive their month, and cobweb and mildew have already spread from these to the binding of those; and happily I am reminded of what poetry is,--I perceive that Shakespeare and Milton did not foresee into what company they were to fall. Alas! that so soon the work of a true poet should be swept into such a dust-hole!

The mission of men there seems to be, like so many busy demons, to drive the forest all out of the country, from every solitary beaver swamp and mountain-side, as soon as possible.

Methinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green.

We live thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another, and I think we thus lose some respect for one another.

Poetry implies the whole truth. Philosophy expresses a particle of it.

The flowers of the apple are perhaps the most beautiful of any tree's, so copious and so delicious to both sight and scent.