Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.

Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.

We murder to dissect.