“A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship On the breast of the river of Time.”

All the biblical miracles will at last disappear with the progress of science.

The power of the Latin classic is in character , that of the Greek is in beauty . Now character is capable of being taught, learnt, and assimilated: beauty hardly.

History – a vast Mississippi of falsehoods

Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the sky, to have loved, to have thought, to have done?

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows Like the wave; Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. Love tends life a little grace, A few sad smiles; and then, Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave.

However, if I shall live to be eighty I shall probably be the only person left in England who reads anything but newspapers and scientific publications.

Poetry is simply the most beautiful, impressive, and widely effective mode of saying things.

Time may restore us in his course Goethe’s sage mind and Byron’s force: But where will Europe’s latter hour Again find Wordsworth’s healing power?

The difference between genuine poetry and the poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their school, is briefly this: their poetry is conceived and composed in their wits, genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the soul.

Not a having and a resting, but a growing and a becoming, is the character of perfection as culture conceives it.

Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone.

Culture being a pursuit of our total perfection by means of getting to know, on all the matters which most concern us, the best which has been thought and said in the world.

Our inequality materializes our upper class, vulgarizes our middle class, brutalizes our lower class.

Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole.

The true meaning of religion is thus not simply morality, but morality touched by emotion.

Not deep the poet sees, but wide.

The infant breaks his toy, bites his nurse’s breast, strangles his canary long before he is able to reason; cruelty is stamped in animals, in whom, as I think I have said, Nature’s laws are more emphatically to be read than in ourselves; cruelty exists amongst savages.

I can’t read in a car, because I’ll get sick. It’s almost instant.

The infant runs toward it with its eyes closed, the adult is stationary, the old man approaches it with his back turned.

Some say an army of horsemen, or infantry, A fleet of ships is the fairest thing On the face of the black earth, but I say It’s what one loves.

Nothing in progression can rest on its original plan. We may as well think of rocking a grown man in the cradle of an infant.

The person who is certain, and who claims divine warrant for his certainty, belongs now to the infancy of our species.

Stop giving your infant heart/ wrapped in blind vows/ white lies/ and a haunted past/ stop asking for love/ if you don’t know how to give any/ stop hurting others/ stop it/ stop it/ just fucking stop it.