To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.

Every thought which genius and piety throw into the world alters the world.

The cold, inconsiderate of persons, tingles your blood, benumbs your feet, freezes a man like an apple.

There is no chance and anarchy in the universe. All is system and gradation. Every god is there sitting in his sphere.

The soul answers never by words, but by the thing itself that is inquired after.

Gross and obscure natures, however decorated, seem impure shambles; but character gives splendor to youth, and awe to wrinkled skin and gray hairs.

Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear.