All men are poets at heart. They serve nature for bread, but her loveliness overcomes them sometimes.

Sleep lingers all our lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree.

There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul, that which I also had wellnigh thought and said.

We know truth when we see it, from opinion, as we know when we are awake that we are awake.

The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every prison a more illustrious abode.

What is life but the angle of vision? A man is measured by the angle at which he looks at objects.

As long as our civilization is essentially one of property, of fences, of exclusiveness, it will be mocked by delusions.