Poetry, therefore, we will call Musical Thought.

Who is it that loves me and will love me forever with an affection which no chance, no misery, no crime of mine can do away? It is you, my mother.

Whose school-hours are all the days and nights of our existence.

The Highest Being reveals himself in man.

At the bottom there is no perfect history; there is none such conceivable. All past centuries have rotted down, and gone confusedly dumb and quiet.

The depth of our despair measures what capability and height of claim we have to hope.

A person who is gifted sees the essential point and leaves the rest as surplus.