Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point

Every Author Has The Whole Past To Contend With; All The Centuries Are Upon Him. He Is Compared With Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

Down Sank The Great Red Sun, And In Golden, Glimmering Vapors Veiled The Light Of His Face, Like The Prophet Descending From Sinai.

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

O Thou Sculptor, Painter, Poet! Take This Lesson To Thy Heart: That Is Best Which Lieth Nearest; Shape From That Thy Work Of Art.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It. I Stand In Awe Of My Own Opinion. The Secret Demerits Of Which We Alone, Perhaps, Are Conscious, Are Often More Difficult To Bear Than Those Which Have Been Publicly Censured In Us, And Thus In Some Degree Atoned For.