Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.