The tyrant should take heed to what he doth, Since every victim-carrion turns to use, And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth, Against each piled injustice.
Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!
The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.
Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.
Books are men of higher stature.
The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
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