When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we can find nowhere in his works, that "ridicule is the test of truth."

A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.

There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.

The genius of poetry must work out its own salvation in a man; it cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself. That which is creative must create itself.

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.