All clean and comfortable I sit down to write.

What is more gentle than a wind is summer?

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

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.

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

Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.

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.