There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady’s hands.
There is no instinct like that of the heart.
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.
Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.
Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.
Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.
I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.
Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
Adversity is the first path to truth.
I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
One hates an author that’s all author.