Poverty ... It is life near the bone, where it is sweetest.

It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know.

To forget all about your mistakes adds to them perhaps.

Rescue the drowning and tie your shoestrings.

Poetry is the only life got, the only work done, the only pure product and free labor of man, performed only when he has put all the world under his feet, and conquered the last of his foes.

What a contrast between the stern and desolate poetry of Ossian, and that of Chaucer, and even of Shakespeare and Milton, much more of Dryden, and Pope, and Gray! Our summer of English poetry, like the Greek and Latin before it, seems well advanced towards its fall, and laden with the fruit and foliage of the season, with bright autumnal tints, but soon the winter will scatter its myriad clustering and shading leaves, and leave only a few desolate and fibrous boughs to sustain the snow and rime, and creak in the blasts of age.

Whatever has not come under the sway of man is wild. In this sense original and independent men are wild - not tamed and broken by society.