Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.

...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.