Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart’s Affections And The Truth Of The Imagination – What The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth – Whether It Existed Before Or Not – For I Have The Same Idea Of All Our Passions As Of Love They Are All In Their Sublime, Creative Of Essential Beauty . . .

Where Are The Songs Of Spring? Aye, Where Are They? Think Not Of Them; Thou Has Thy Music Too.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.