I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.

To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimpeachable of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art.

Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.

Oh, to be alive in such an age, when miracles are everywhere, and every inch of common air throbs a tremendous prophecy, of greater marvels yet to be.

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.

I tramp a perpetual journey.

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love; But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another; (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd; Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)