Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness – and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
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.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.