What is required is sight and insight- then you might add one more: excite.
I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.
That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
He burned his house down for the fire insurance and spent the proceeds on a telescope.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew — Only more sure of all I thought was true.