Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.

The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.

It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.

I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.

The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.