I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman - they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.

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!

Let us not go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there for a knowledge of what is not to be arrived at, but let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive, budding patiently under the eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble insect that favours us with a visit - sap will be given us for meat and dew for drink.

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?