Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out ofthe window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

And the glory of character is in affronting the horrors of depravity to draw thence new nobilities of power: as Art lives and thrills in new use and combining of contrasts, and mining into the dark evermore for blacker pits of night.

There is a remedy for every wrong and a satisfaction for every soul.

I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-borne treasures home.

Music is the poor man's Parnassus.

Eloquence shows the power and possibility of man.