All The Events Of Our Life Are

It Is Not Merely The Multiplicity Of Tints, The Gladness Of Tone, Or The Balminess Of The Air Which Delight In The Spring; It Is The Still Consecrated Spirit Of Hope, The Prophecy Of Happy Days Yet To Come; The Endless Variety Of Nature, With Presentiments Of Eternal Flowers Which Never Shall Fade, And Sympathy With The Blessedness Of The Ever-developing World.

Character Is Perfectly Educated Will.

Nature Is An Aeolian Harp, A Musical Instrument Whose Tones Are The Re-echo Of Higher Strings Within Us.

The Art Of Writing Books Is Not Yet Invented. But It Is At The Point Of Being Invented. Fragments Of This Nature Are Literary Seeds. There May Be Many An Infertile Grain Among Them: Nevertheless, If Only Some Come Up!

The True Poet Is All-knowing; He Is An Actual World In Miniature.