All writing is a form of prayer.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

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

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 certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .

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