Ah! From The Soul Itself Must Issue

Poetry, Even That Of The Loftiest, And Seemingly, That Of The Wildest Odes, [has] A Logic Of Its Own As Severe As That Of Science; And More Difficult, Because More Subtle, More Complex, And Dependent On More And More Fugitive Causes. In The Truly Great Poets... There Is A Reason Assignable, Not Only For Every Word, But For The Position Of Every Word.

Why Is It That So Many Of Us Persist In Thinking That Autumn Is A Sad Season? Nature Has Merely Fallen Asleep, And Her Dreams Must Be Beautiful If We Are To Judge By Her Countenance.

Sympathy Constitutes Friendship; But In Love There Is A Sort Of Antipathy, Or Opposing Passion. Each Strives To Be The Other, And Both Together Make Up One Whole.

Democracy Is The Healthful Lifeblood Which Circulates Through The Veins And Arteries, Which Supports The System, But Which Ought Never To Appear Externally, And As The Mere Blood Itself.

Therefore All Seasons Shall Be Sweet To Thee, Whether The Summer Clothe The General Earth With Greenness, Or The Redbreast Sit And Sing Betwixt The Tufts Of Snow On The Bare Branch Of Mossy Apple Tree.