Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?