I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.
All writing is a form of prayer.
The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.