“Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.”

“[Poetry] strips the veil of familiarity from the world, and lays bear the naked and sleeping beauty which is the spirit of its forms.”

“The splendors of the firmament of timeMay be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;Like stars to their appointed height they climbAnd death is a low mist which cannot blotThe brightness it may veil.”

“I have sent books and music there, and all / Those instruments with which high spirits call / The future from its cradle, and the past / Out of its grave, and make the present last / In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, / Folded within their own eternity.”

“I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear,— Till death like sleep might steal on me And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.”

“The being called God...bears every mark of a veil woven by philosophical conceit, to hide the ignorance of philosophers even from themselves. They borrow the threads of its texture from the anthropomorphism of the vulgar.”

“Oh,lift me as a wave,a leaf,a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life!I bleed!”