This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood, So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is-- I hold it towards you.

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

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Wine is only sweet to happy men.

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.

Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.