She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
All writing is a form of prayer.
I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.