After all, poets shouldn't be their own interpreters and shouldn't carefully dissect their poems into everyday prose; that would mean the end of being poets. Poets send their creations into the world, it is up to the reader, the aesthetician, and the critic to determine what they wanted to say with their creations.

Distance... is like futurity. A dim vastness is spread before our souls; the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision... But alas! when we have attained our object, when the distant 'there' becomes the present 'here,' all is changed; we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.

An absent friend gives us friendly company when we are well assured of his happiness.

A man may twist as he pleases, and do what he pleases, but he inevitably comes back to the track to which nature has destined him.

If we are out of synch with ourselves, everything is out of synch for us.

Misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than malice and wickedness.

Is this the destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason or after he has lost it?