There is no beauty without some strangeness

We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.

If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul; you haven't experienced poetry.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)

Even for those to whom life and death are equal jests. There are some things that are still held in respect.