His letters are disappointing, and his mean clinging to the aristocracy still more so.
I wish you could suddenly walk into this valley, which seems to have been made by the flashing scimitar of the river that cuts through the mountain.

Ah! you in England, and in Belgium still less, do not know what scenery is, what Nature is when she is natural.

You could as soon guess at a tiger from the cat on the hearthstone.

You do not know; but, being a poet, you can dream.

You have divine insights, as we all have, of heaven, all of us with whom the mortal mind does not cake and obstruct into cecity.