Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.

A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, ‘Thou art no Poet may’st not tell thy dreams?’ Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.