As we to the brutes, poets are to us.
We are betrayed by what is false within
Poetry is talking on tiptoe.
George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.