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.

It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they

Call the world if you please "the vale of soul-making." Then you will find out the use of the world.

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.

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

Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.