Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever!
Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.