I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.
I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever; and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
Touch has a memory. O say, love say, What can I do to kill it and be free In my old liberty?
As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- "Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;" or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmur of tender lullabies!
But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
Works of genius are the first things in the world.
How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?
My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.
What is more gentle than a wind is summer?
I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
I have nothing to speak of but my self-and what can I say but what I feel.
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.
The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks.
A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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