Everything in nature is resurrection.

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.