That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.