“We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.”

When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.

Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit.

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

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.