That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane.
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.
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.
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...
For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. And now I’m in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He’d tear me where he stands.
Her guardian angel had given up his garrison.
But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away.′ For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour?
Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed – To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?
I could love anything on Earth that appeared to wish it.
Morn came and went – and came, and brought no day.