A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature.

Let that which stood in front go behind, let that which was behind advance to the front, let bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new propositions, let the old propositions be postponed.

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.