Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?