No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

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

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.