I want a brighter word than bright

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.

I find I cannot exist without Poetry

All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.