“The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.”

There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.

That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.

The past is a pebble in my shoe.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

A wise man hears one word and understands two.

All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

False hope is nicer than no hope at all.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.