When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".
Beauty is truth, truth beauty
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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.