Knowledge, or more expressively truth,--for knowledge is truth received into our intelligence,--truth is an ideal whole.

Toil, feel, think, hope; you will be sure to dream enough before you die, without arranging for it.

Instinct is intelligence incapable of self-consciousness.

Pain has its own noble joy, when it starts a strong consciousness of life, from a stagnant one.

Superstition moulds nature into an arbitrary semblance of the supernatural, and then bows down to the work of its own hands.

Speech is as a pump, by which we raise and pour out the water from the great lake of Thought,--whither it flows back again.

Poetry is in itself strength and joy, whether it be crowned by all mankind, or left alone in its own magic hermitage.