Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably