Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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.
I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.