We are imprisoned in life in the company of persons powerfully unlike us.

It seems as if the day was not wholly profane in which we have given heed to some natural object.

Beauty rests on necessities.

Life is in short cycles or periods; we are quickly tired, but we have rapid rallies. A man is spent by his work, starved, prostrate; he will not lift his hand to save his life; he can never think more. He sinks into deep sleep and wakes with renewed youth, with hope, courage, fertile in resources, and keen for daring adventure.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem.

The best effort of a fine person is felt after we have left their presence.

Solitude is naught and society is naught. Alternate them and the good of each is seen.