The spirit of poetry, like all other living powers, must of necessity circumscribe itself by rules, were it only to unite power with beauty.

For I often please myself with the fancy, now that I may have saved from oblivion the only striking passage in a whole volume, and now that I may have attracted notice to a writer undeservedly forgotten.

The first great requisite is absolute sincerity. Falsehood and disguise are miseries and misery-makers.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.

And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin is pride that apes humility.

This world has angels all too few, and heaven is overflowing.

A sight to dream of, not to tell!