Words are finite organs of the infinite mind. They cannot cover the dimensions of what is in truth. They break, chop, and impoverish it.

Teach me your mood, O patient stars. Who climb each night, the ancient sky. leaving on space no shade, no scars, no trace of age, no fear to die.

Cities give us collision. 'Tis said, London and New York take the nonsense out of a man.

The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of the shells of animalcules, so language is made up of images or tropes, which now, in their secondary use, have long ceased to remind us of their poetic origin.

It is not the irregular hours or irregular diet that makes the romantic life.

Men love to wonder, and that is the seed of science.

It does not to dwell on dreams and forget to live, but it is equally foolish to ignore the past – never forget.