I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.

To the very last, he [Napoleon] had a kind of idea; that, namely, of la carrière ouverte aux talents, - the tools to him that can handle them.

Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.

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

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.