There is a sacred horror about everything grand. It is easy to admire mediocrity and hills; but whatever is too lofty, a genius as well as a mountain, an assembly as well as a masterpiece, seen too near, is appalling.

Algebra applies to the clouds.

Rhyme, that enslaved queen, that supreme charm of our poetry, that creator of our meter.

The flesh is the upper surface of the unknown.

God was bored by him.

[T]he small is great, the great is small; all is in equilibrium in necessity.

If nobody loved, the sun would go out.