Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

All clean and comfortable I sit down to write.

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, ‘Thou art no Poet may’st not tell thy dreams?’ Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.