A poem, a sentence, causes us to see ourselves. I be, and I see my being, at the same time.

Go cherish your soul; express companions; set your habits to a life of solitude; then will the faculties rise fair and full within.

Beware of too much good staying in your hand. It will fast corrupt and worm worms. Pay it away quickly in some sort.

The vanishing, volatile froth of the present which any shadow will alter, any thought blow away, any event annihilate, is every moment converted into the adamantine.

Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue. . . .

The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed.

Beauty rests on necessities.