Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Love is free; to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed; such a vow in both cases excludes us from all inquiry.
Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
All truly historical peoples have an idea they must realize, and when they have sufficiently exploited it at home, they export it, in a certain way, by war; they make it tour the world.
There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.