The world we live in is but thickened light. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects.

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations.

Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is art.