“History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.”

The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.

Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal.

Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.

Love’s very pain is sweet.

A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.

Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?

Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.

Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.

And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

I have me brave women who are exploring the outer edge of human possibility, with no history to guide them, and with a courage to make themselves vulnerable that I find moving beyond words.

I never leave anything behind. It’s like a history, a chain, a line of life, you just have to move and make new steps, and keep it evolving – but my soul is my soul.

The world’s history is the world’s judgment.

Human nature is the one constant through human history. It is always there.

I turn to history not for lessons but to confront my experience with the experience of others and to win for myself a sense of responsibility for the state of the human conscience.

An image of thought called philosophy has been formed historically and it effectively stops people from thinking.

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.