The book of nature is the book of fate. She turns the gigantic pages, leaf after leaf never returning one.

People who wash much have a high mind about it, and talk down to those who wash little.

A mind might ponder its thought for an epoch, and not gain so much self-knowledge as the passion of love shall teach in a day.

We are reformers in the spring and summer, but in autumn we stand by the old. Reformers in the morning, and conservers at night.

Everything intercepts us from ourselves.

There is no strong performance without a little fanaticism in the performer.

The poet's habit of living should be set on a key so low that the common influences should delight him.