A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.

I always made an awkward bow.

I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.