We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

The child shall become father to the man.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.

We murder to dissect.