She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!

I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.