[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.
Egotism is usually subversive of sagacity.
Revision is its own reward.
Poetry, that is to say the poetic, is a primal necessity.
The mind is an enchanting thing.
The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.