We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.
But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.
I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
Health is my expected heaven.
O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success...
There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.
Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Nothing ever becomes real till experienced – even a proverb is no proverb until your life has illustrated it.
Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu.
Love is my religion – I could die for it.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.
If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.