Wordsworth went to the Lakes, but he was never a lake poet. He found in stones the sermons he had already hidden there.

The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?

There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation.

Public Opinion... an attempt to organize the ignorance of the community, and to elevate it to the dignity of physical force.

I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity.

Always! That is the dreadful word ... it is a meaningless word, too.

Love is not fashionable anymore; the poets have killed it.