Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green; there is a budding morrow in midnight; there is triple sight in blindness keen.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

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.

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.

Call the world if you please "the vale of soul-making." Then you will find out the use of the world.

Load every rift with ore.