Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.

It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores

I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.