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.'

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.

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?