Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

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.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Dreams, books, are each a world.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.