Philosophy is properly home-sickness; the wish to be everywhere at home.
There is but one temple in the universe, and that is the body of man.
Friendship, love, and piety ought to be handled with a sort of mysterious secrecy; they ought to be spoken of only in the rare moments of perfect confidence, to be mutually understood in silence. Many things are too delicate to be thought; many more, to be spoken.
The true Poet is all-knowing; he is an actual world in miniature.
Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.
Genius in general is poetic. Where genius has been active it has been poetically active. The truly moral person is a poet.