Plants are the young of the world, vessels of health and vigor; but they grope ever upward towards consciousness; the trees are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan their imprisonment, rooted in the ground.

I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which were original and not conventional.

A farm is a good thing, when it begins and ends with itself, and does not need a salary, or a shop, to eke it out.

America is not civil, whilst Africa is barbarous.

I wish to write such rhymes as shall not suggest a restraint, but contrariwise the wildest freedom.

I am the owner of the sphere, Of the seven stars and the solar year, of Caesar's hand, and Plato's brain, Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakespeare's strain.

As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds a disease of the intellect.