Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
Dreams, books, are each a world.
Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?