O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?
Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.
A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.
In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.