A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.

All love is sweet, given or received.

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

When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.

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

The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning.

Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, 'I will compose poetry.' The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness...and the conscious portions of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure.