What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

Words alone are certain good.

When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?