Not failure, but low aim, is crime.

Better one bite at forty, of truths bitter rind, than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty.

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.

Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, and cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, and not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.

Heaven is neither here nor there to me. Everywhere and nowhere. Just not in between, But I believe in Heaven.

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

In the earliest ages science was poetry, as in the later poetry has become science.