Call for the grandest of all earthly spectacles, what is that? It is the sun going to his rest.

Out of the ruined lodge and forgotten mansion, bowers that are trodden under foot, and pleasure-houses that are dust, the poet calls up a palingenesis.

No progressive knowledge will ever medicine that dread misgiving of a mysterious and pathless power given to words of a certain import.

War has a deeper and more ineffable relation to hidden grandeurs in man than has yet been deciphered.

All parts of knowledge have their origin in metaphysics, and finally, perhaps, revolve into it.

The whole body of the arts and sciences composes one vast machinery for the irritation and development of the human intellect.

Enough if every age produce two or three critics of this esoteric class, with here and there a reader to understand them.