Of Nature itself upon the soul; the sunrise, the haze of autumn, the winter starlight seem interlocutors; the prevailing sense is that of an exposition in poetry; a high discourse, the voice of the speaker seems to breathe as much from the landscape as from his own breast; it is Nature communing with the seer.

Yet time and space are but inverse measures of the force of the soul. The spirit sports with time.

Milton says, that the lyric poet may drink wine and live generously, but the epic poet, he who shall sing of the gods, and their descent unto men, must drink water out of a wooden bowl. For poetry is not "Devil's wine," but God's wine.

The need for a rational consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.

All writing comes by the grace of God.

Very idle is all curiosity concerning other people's estimate of us, and all fear of remaining unknown is not less so.

Don't choose the better person, choose the person who makes a better you.