Everything we look upon is blest.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.

Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

There is only one romance the Soul's.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.