Load every rift with ore.

The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream-he awoke and found it truth.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity.

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it — make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me —write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair.

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