[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.
Blessed the geniuses who know / that egomania is not a duty.
A man is a writer if all his words are strung in definite sentence sounds.
Poetry is a peerless proficiency of the imagination.
A writer is unfair to himself when he is unable to be hard on himself.
Not till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination"-above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them." shall we have it.