Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane