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.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.

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

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.