“How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they.”

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

One of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind’s imagining into another

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

Every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid.

Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.

Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?

Love is my religion – I could die for it.

I will clamber through the clouds and exist.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.

I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

As the Swiss inscription says: “Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;” or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.

I don’t need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.