Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast.
Nature tells every secret once.
There are eyes, to be sure, that give no more admission into the man than blueberries.
Here is the world, sound as a nut, perfect, not the smallest piece of chaos left, never a stitch nor an end, not a mark of haste, or botching, or second thought; but the theory of the world is a thing of shreds and patches.
The world always had the same bankrupt look, to foregoing ages as to us.
The world is full of judgment-days, and into every assembly that a man enters, in every action he attempts, he is gauged and stamped.
The world is his who can see through its pretension.
Tart, cathartic virtue.
Excite the soul, and the weather and the town and your condition in the world all disappear; the world itself loses its solidity, nothing remains but the soul and the Divine Presence in which it lives.
He presents me with what is always an acceptable gift who brings me news of a great thought before unknown. He enriches me without impoverishing himself.
The gates of thought, - how slow and late they discover themselves! Yet when they appear, we see that they were always there, always open.
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought.
If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways, I keep and pass and turn again.
We seldom see anybody who is not uneasy or afraid to live.
Let us, if we must have great actions, make our own so. All action is of infinite elasticity, and the least admits of being inflated with celestial air, until it eclipses the sun and moon.
I honor health as the first Muse.
The highest Beauty should be plain set.
Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.
We are made aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the passion of the poet. Thus, in his sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers, he finds to be the shadow of his beloved; time, which keeps her from him, is his chest; the suspicion she has awakened, is her ornament
Sometimes we receive the power to say yes to life. Then peace enters us and makes us whole.
Truth is always present; it only needs to lift the iron lids of the mind's eye to read its oracles.
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.
Headwinds are sore vexations and the more passengers the sorer.
It is time to be old To take in sail.
Everyone I meet is in some way my superior.
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