Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.

Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls

Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.

Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.

The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning.

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!