poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

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.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.

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