The hands are the heart's messengers.

Impatience is the mark of independence, not of bondage.

Poetry, that is to say the poetic, is a primal necessity.

The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.

The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."

[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.

Revision is its own reward.