The devil loves nothing better than the intolerance of reformers.

It is the privilege of genius that life never grows common place, as it does for the rest of us.

No man, I suspect, ever lived long in the country without being bitten by these meteorological ambitions. He likes to be hotter and colder, to have been more deeply snowed up, to have more trees and larger blown down than his neighbors.

Greatly begin. Though thou have time, but for a line, be that sublime. Not failure, but low aim is crime.

That pernicious sentiment, "Our country, right or wrong."

A wise man travels to discover himself.

How I do love the earth. I feel it thrill under my feet. I feel somehow as if it were conscious of my love, as if something passed into my dancing blood from it.