Vanity Is The Quicksand Of Reason.

You See What Stupid Folk My Publishers Are; But They Are All Alike.

Nature Has Not Changed. The Night Is Still Unsullied, The Stars Still Twinkle, And The Wild Thyme Smells As Sweetly Now As It Did Then ... We May Be Afflicted And Unhappy, But No One Can Take From Us The Sweet Delight Which Is Nature's Gift To Those Who Love Her And Her Poetry.

I'm Beginning To Believe That There Are Angels Disguised As Men Who Pass Themselves Off As Such And Who Inhabit The Earth For A While To Console And Lift Up With Them Toward Heaven The Poor, Exhausted And Saddened Souls Who Were Ready To Perish Here Below.

Art Belongs To All Times And To All Countries; Its Special Benefit Is Precisely To Be Still Living When Everything Else Seems Dying; That Is Why Providence Shields It From Too Personal Or Too General Passions, And Grants It A Patient And Persevering Organization, Durable Sensibility, And The Contemplative Sense In Which Lies Invincible Faith.

He Who Draws Noble Delights From Sentiments Of Poetry Is A True Poet, Though He Has Never Written A Line In All His Life.