There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

Death is Life's high meed.

How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.