A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me.
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.
Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- “Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;” or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
There’s a blush for won’t, and a blush for shan’t, and a blush for having done it: There’s a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.
Severn – I – lift me up – I am dying – I shall die easy; don’t be frightened – be firm, and thank God it has come.
That which is creative must create itself.
I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.
My creed is love and you are its only tenet.
Conversation is not a search after knowledge, but an endeavor at effect.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.
That queen of secrecy, the violet.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.
So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries, She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.