Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean
Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.
Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!