O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall / Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap / May who ne'er hung there.

I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman's mind to be more like my own than any other man's living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession.

The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.

It is a happy thing that there is no royal road to poetry. The world should know by this time that one cannot reach Parnassus except by flying thither.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

Up above, what wind walks! What lovely behavior of silk-sack clouds has wilder, wilful, wavier, meal-drift molded over and melted across skies!