The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.

Here I swear, and as I break my oath may ... eternity blast me, here I swear that never will I forgive Christianity! It is the only point on which I allow myself to encourage revenge... Oh, how I wish I were the Antichrist, that it were mine to crush the Demon; to hurl him to his native Hell never to rise again - I expect to gratify some of this insatiable feeling in Poetry.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again; from the contagion of the world's slow stain, he is secure.

Man's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred; it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.