It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

I have so much of you in my heart.

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

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.

The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .