What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast, that wheather there be shine, or gloom o'er cast, They always must be with us, or we die.

...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.

I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.