It’s a man’s sincerity and depth of vision that makes him a poet.
A force as of madness in the hands of reason has done all that was ever done in the world.
Nature, after all, is still the grand agent in making poets.
Parties on the back of Parties, at war with the world and with each other.
There is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man.
Shakespeare says, we are creatures that look before and after; the more surprising that we do not look around a little, and see what is passing under our very eyes.
Insurrection, never so necessary, is a most sad necessity; and governors who wait for that to instruct them are surely getting into the fatalest course.
He that has a secret to hide should not only hide it but hide that he has to hide it.
The leafy blossoming present time springs from the whole past, remembered and unrememberable.
If there be not a religious element in the relations of men, such relations are miserable and doomed to ruin.
How, without clothes, could we possess the master organ, soul’s seat and true pineal gland of the body social – I mean a purse?
Armed Soldier, terrible as Death, relentless as Doom; doing God’s judgement on the Enemies of God. It is a phenomenon not of joyful nature; no, but of awful, to be looked at with pious terror and awe.
Poetry is the attempt which man makes to render his existence harmonious.
There are remedies for all things but death.
Debt is a bottomless sea.
God Almighty never created a man half as wise as he looks.
Battles, in these ages, are transacted by mechanism; with the slightest possible development of human individuality or spontaneity; men now even die, and kill one another, in an artificial manner.
All comes out even at the end of the day.
So here hath been dawning Another blue day; Think, wilt thou let it Slip useless away? Out of eternity This new day is born, Into eternity At night will return.
Is not every meanest day the confluence of two eternities?