If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.

Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.

I do not feel I could give up all for Christ, were I called to die.

I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious

Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.