Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.

a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought

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

Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

... Virtue owns a more eternal foe Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime, And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.

Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance; if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.