We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?

I find I cannot exist without Poetry

How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.

Death is Life's high meed.