So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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.