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The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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When my cats aren’t happy, I’m not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they’re just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
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Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, – but it returneth!
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The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
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Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.
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First our pleasures die – and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust – and we die too.
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I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
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Love withers under constraints: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear.
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Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?
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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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