Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green; there is a budding morrow in midnight; there is triple sight in blindness keen.

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

I always made an awkward bow.