A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

You are always new to me.

So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.