We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.

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

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

All writing is a form of prayer.

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.