None know how often the hand of God is seen in a wilderness but them that rove it for a man's life.

We are still in Eden; the wall that shuts us out is our own ignorance and folly.

If the imagination is shackled, and nothing is described but what we see, seldom will anything truly great be produced either in Painting or Poetry

How lovely are the portals of the night, when stars come out to watch the daylight die.

Overall, rocks, wood and water, brooded the spirit of repose, and the silent energy of nature stirred the soul to its innermost depths.

To walk with nature as a poet is the necessary condition of a perfect artist.

Nothing is invented and brought to perfection all at once.