There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.

O aching time! O moments big as years!

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

Let us not go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there for a knowledge of what is not to be arrived at, but let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive, budding patiently under the eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble insect that favours us with a visit - sap will be given us for meat and dew for drink.

Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.