O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you; As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.

By writing at the instant, the very heartbeat of life is caught.

Whoever degrades another degrades me.

I exist as I am, that is enough.

I think of few heroic actions, which cannot be traced to the artistical impulse. He who does great deeds, does them from his innate sensitiveness to moral beauty.

Now I see the secret of making the best person: it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.