Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.