I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.
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.
A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.
That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.
Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.