Poetry Heals The Wounds Inflicted By Reason.

Knowledge Is Only One Half. Faith Is The Other.

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.

Accident Is Simply Unforeseen Order.

The Artist Stands On The Human Being As A Statue Does On A Pedestal.

To Get To Know A Truth Properly, One Must Polemicize It.