Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

It may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.... They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry sheds no tears "such as Angels weep," but natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of them both.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.