A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.

Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

The genius of poetry must work out its own salvation in a man; it cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself. That which is creative must create itself.

Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy; don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?