The true genius shudders at incompleteness.
It is with literature as with law or empire – an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession.
A wise man hears one word and understands two.
I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life – except in hope, which is by no means bankable.
The object, Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object, Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
I have no words alas! to tell the loveliness of loving well.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist.
Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.
A fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility – alive, with the qualifications of the dead – dead, with the propensities of the living – an anomaly on the face of the earth – being very calm, yet breathless.
How many good books suffer neglect through the inefficiency of their beginnings!
The fever called “living” Is conquer’d at last.
A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.
Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heartone of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man.
Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man.
A gentleman with a pug nose is a contradiction in terms.
From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down.
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...
Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
Sound loves to revel in a summer night.