Everything Is Made Of One Hidden Stuff.

The Tempered Light Of The Woods Is Like A Perpetual Morning.

It Seems As If The Day Was Not Wholly Profane In Which We Have Given Heed To Some Natural Object.

Men Are Born To Write. The Gardener Saves Every Slip, And Seed, And Peach-stone: His Vocation Is To Be A Planter Of Plants. Not Less Does The Writer Attend His Affair. Whatever He Beholds Or Experiences, Comes To Him As A Model, And Sits For Its Picture. He Counts It All Nonsense That They Say, That Some Things Are Undescribable. He Believes That All That Can Be Thought Can Be Written, First Or Last; And He Would Report The Holy Ghost, Or Attempt It.

Columbus Discovered No Isle Or Key So Lonely As Himself.

To Believe In Luck ... Is Skepticism.