Everything we look upon is blest.

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

Everything in nature is resurrection.

Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.