It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.