The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

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

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.

What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.