I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness - if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor - but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibers of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.

Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores