Know'st thou yesterday, its aim and reason? Work'st thou will today for worthier things? Then calmly wait the morrow's hidden season, And fear thou not, what hap soe'er it brings

What makes poetry? A full heart, brimful of one noble passion.

The march of intellect, which licks all the world into shape, has even reached the devil.

Art rests on a kind of religious sense, on a deep, steadfast earnestness; and on this account it unites so readily with religion.

Man must strive, and striving he must err.

The biggest problem with every art is by the use of appearance to create a loftier reality.

Presents at once? That's good. He is sure to succeed.