Mystery Hovers Over All Things Here Below.

Soul Of The Universe, Sire, God, Creator, Lord, I Believe In Thee, 'neath All These Names: And Without Having Need To Hear Thy Word, In The Sky's Brow My Glorious Creed I Trace.

Shall Not This Bygone Eden That We Knew In Our Eternal Life Have Shape And Hue? For Where Time Is Not Shall Not All Time Be? In That Calm Breast Whereto Our Souls Are Cleaving Shall We Not Find Our Loved Ones Beyond Grieving About The Hearth-stone Of Eternity?

It Is Because Of The Servility Of Photography That I Am Fundamentally Contemptuous Of This Chance Invention Which Will Never Be An Art But Which Plagiarizes Nature By Means Of Optics. (1848)

Inspiration Is Solitary, Never Consecutive.

Chance Often Gives Us That Which We Should Not Have Presumed To Ask.