Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

The living can assist the imagination of the dead.

Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

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

The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

There is another world, but it is in this one.