By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee.
Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
The power of thought is the magic of the mind.
They grieved for those who perished with the cutter, and also for the biscuit casks and butter.
The lapse of ages changes all things – time – language – the earth – the bounds of the sea – the stars of the sky, and everything ‘about, around, and underneath’ man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence.
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?
Come, lay thy head upon my breast and I’ll kiss thee unto rest.
We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched.
I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion.
Just as I had formed a tolerable establishment my travels commenced, and on my return I find all to do over again; my former flock were all scattered; some married, not before it was needful.
Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.
Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass? – and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven...
No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.
She is so good a person, that – that – in short, I wish I was a better.
For Earth is but a tombstone.
The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps – partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains.
Composing a letter is a way to combine solitude with good company.
But for the present gentle reader! And still gentler purchaser.
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon...