What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?

I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.

Those who have no hope pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.

These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.