Blest Hour! It Was A Luxury--to Be!

Day After Day, Day After Day, We Stuck, Nor Breath Nor Motion; As Idle As A Painted Ship Upon A Painted Ocean.

To Believe And To Understand Are Not Diverse Things, But The Same Things In Different Periods Of Growth.

There Are Errors Which No Wise Man Will Treat With Rudeness While There Is A Probability That They May Be The Refraction Of Some Great Truth Still Below The Horizon.

Poetry Is Certainly Something More Than Good Sense, But It Must Be Good Sense, At All Events, Just As A Palace Is More Than A House, But It Must Be A House, At Least.

I Have Often Been Surprised That Mathematics, The Quintessence Of Truth, Should Have Found Admirers So Few And So Languid. Frequent Consideration And Minute Scrutiny Have At Length Unravelled The Cause: Viz . That Though Reason Is Feasted, Imagination Is Starved; Whilst Reason Is Luxuriating In Its Proper Paradise, Imagination Is Wearily Travelling On A Dreary Desert.