What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.