The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.

Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.