Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Wine is only sweet to happy men.

It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.

Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .

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.

Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego