Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

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.

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

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.