The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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.