The key to every man is his thought.

A poem is made up of thoughts, each of which filled the whole sky of the poet in its turn.

The hues of the opal, the light of the diamond, are not to be seen if the eye is too near.

Health, south wind, books, old trees, a boat, a friend.

The path of things is silent. Will they suffer a speaker to go with them?

A man cannot speak but he judges himself. With his will or against his will he draws his portrait to the eye of his companions by every word. Every opinion reacts on him who utters it. It is a threadball thrown at a mark, but the other end remains on the thrower

The word Miracle, as pronounced by Christian churches, gives a false impression; it is Monster. It is not one with the blowing clover and the falling rain.