Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.

Our opinions of the world, are confessions of character.

The spirit of the world, the great calm presence of the creator, comes not forth to the sorceries of opium or of wine.

The poem is a confession of faith.

Beauty without expression is boring.

In strict science, all persons underlie the same condition of an infinite remoteness. Shall we fear to cool our love by mining forthe metaphysical foundation of this elysian temple? Shall I not be as real as the things I see? If I am, I shall not fear to know them for what they are.

What is man born for but to be a Reformer, a Remaker of what man has made? A renouncer of lies; a restorer of truth and good? Imitating that great Nature which embossoms us all, and which sleeps no moment on an old past, but every hour repairs herself, yielding us every morning a new day, with every breath a new life?