It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things; or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

What can be explained is not poetry.

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.