Poetry being an attempt to express, not the common sense, - as the avoirdupois of the hero, or his structure in feet and inches, - but the beauty and soul in his aspect . . . runs into fable, personifies every fact. . . .

Never worry about anything. Live in the present. Live now. Be happy.

Why do we think love is a magician? Because the whole power of magic consists in love. The work of magic is the attraction of one thing by another because of a certain affinity of nature.

The abstractionist and the materialist thus mutually exasperating each other, and the scoffer expressing the worst of materialism, there arises a third party to occupy the middle ground between these two, the skeptic, namely. He finds both wrong by being in extremes. He labors to plant his feet, to be the beam of the balance.

Many have paid lip service to philosophy, but these men served it with their whole heart. He tastes nothing who has not tasted for himself.

What is odious but . . . people . . . who toast their feet on the register. . . .

Artists in each of the arts seek after and care for nothing but love.