For a poet is an airy thing, winged and holy, and he is not able to make poetry until he becomes inspired and goes out of his mind and his intellect is no longer in him.

Entire ignorance is not so terrible or extreme an evil, and is far from being the greatest of all.

Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.

Music gives wings to the mind and flight to the imagination.

Never discourage anyone who continually makes progress, no matter how slow... even if that someone is yourself!

The greatest penalty of evil-doing is to grow into the likeness of bad men, and, growing like them, to fly from the conversation of the good, and be cut off from them, and cleave to and follow after the company of the bad.

To suffer the penalty of too much haste, which is too little speed.