Romanticism Is Beauty Without Bounds-the Beautiful Infinite.

How Narrow Our Souls Become When Absorbed In Any Present Good Or Ill! It Is Only The Thought Of The Future That Makes Them Great.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.

Because The Heart Beats Under A Covering Of Hair, Of Fur, Feathers, Or Wings, It Is, For That Reason, To Be Of No Account?

A Scholar Knows No Boredom.

As Winter Strips The Leaves From Around Us, So That We May See The Distant Regions They Formerly Concealed, So Old Age Takes Away Our Enjoyments Only To Enlarge The Prospect Of The Coming Eternity.