Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
Resist much, obey little.
The proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.
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.