Of immortality, the soul, when well employed, is incurious. It is so well, that it is sure that it will be well. It asks no questions of the Supreme Power.

There is some reason to believe that when a man does not write his poetry it escapes by other vents through him, instead of the one vent of writing; clings to his form and manners, whilst poets have often nothing poetical about them except their verses.

We are disgusted by gossip; yet it is of importance to keep the angels in their proprieties.

There is no chance and anarchy in the universe. All is system and gradation. Every god is there sitting in his sphere.

'Well,' said Red Jacket [to someone complaining that he had not enough time], 'I suppose you have all there is.'

It is easy to see that what is best written or done by genius in the world, was no man's work but came by wide social labor, whena thousand wrought like one, sharing the same impulse.

The hero is suffered to be himself.