Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.

A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.

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.

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is