And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.
When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.
Everything we look upon is blest.
Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
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.