Sad Is His Lot, Who, Once At

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

Men Are Misers, And Women Prodigal, In Affection.

Virginity Is The Poetry, Not The Reality, Of Life.

The Photographer Will Never Replace The Painter; One Is A Man, The Other A Machine. Let Us Compare Them No Longer. (1848)

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.