There is one topic peremptorily forbidden to all well-bred, to all rational mortals, namely, their distempers.

The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth, becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows.

The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet

It happens to us once or twice in a lifetime to be drunk with some book which probably has some extraordinary relative power to intoxicate us and none other; and having exhausted that cup of enchantment we go groping in libraries all our years afterwards in the hope of being in Paradise again.

Power and speed be hands and feet.

Every word was once a poem. Every new relation is a new word.

Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.