And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, All all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd / And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, / I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Every hour of every day is an unspeakably perfect miracle.

I am an acme of things accomplished, and I an encloser of things to be.

I have sometimes thought that the laws ought not to punish those actions of evil which are committed when the senses are steeped in intoxication.

The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.