Poetry Is The Morning Dream

All Nature Is The Temple; Earth The Altar.

It Is Because Of The Servility Of Photography That I Am Fundamentally Contemptuous Of This Chance Invention Which Will Never Be An Art But Which Plagiarizes Nature By Means Of Optics. (1848)

Silence,--the Applause Of Real And Durable Impressions.

Private Passions Grow Tired And Wear Themselves Out; Political Passions, Never.

I Am Persuaded That If The Brutes Even--if The Dog, The Horse, The Ox, The Elephant, The Bird, Could Speak, They Would Confess, That, At The Bottom Of Their Nature, Their Instincts, Their Sensations, Their Obtuse Intelligence, Assisted By Organs Less Perfect Than Ours, There Is A Clouded, Secret Sentiment Of This Existence Of A Superior And Primordial Being, From Whom All Emanates, And To Whom All Returns.