From what the moderns want, we must learn what poetry should become; from what the ancients did, what poetry must be.

In England, wit is at least a profession, if not an art. everything becomes professional there, and even the rogues of that islandare pedants. So are the "wits" there too. They introduce into reality absolute freedom whose reflection lends a romantic and piquant air to wit, and thus they live wittily; hence their talent for madness. They die for their principles.

Every form of life is in its origin not natural, but divine and human; for it must spring from love, just as there can be no reason without spirit.

I can no longer say my love and your love; they are both alike in their perfect mutuality.

Think of something finite molded into the infinite, and you think of man.

Nothing truly convincing - which would possess thoroughness, vigor, and skill - has been written against the ancients as yet; especially not against their poetry.

In order to be able to write well upon a subject, one must have ceased to be interested in it; the thought which is to be soberlyexpressed must already be entirely past and no longer be one's actual concern.