Poetry Is The Morning Dream Of Great

What Is Our Life But A Succession Of Preludes To That Unknown Song Whose First Solemn Note Is Sounded By Death?

And When Night, Guiding Her Bright Train Of Stars, Throws O'er The Sleeping World Her Gloomy Veil, Lonely Amidst The Desert And The Darkness, Musing Upon The Night's Calm Majesty; Wrapt Up In Quietness, With Shade And Silence, My Soul More Closely Worshippeth Thy Presence; With An Internal Day I Feel Enlighten'd, And Hear A Voice, Which Biddeth Me To Hope.

Man Is Born Barbarous--he Is Ransomed From The Condition Of Beasts Only By Being Cultivated.

Enthusiasm Is The Intoxication Of Earnestness.

Man Is God By His Faculty For Thought.