Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.

All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!

While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.