O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!

The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.

We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.

Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.

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

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.