O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delvid earth…
Shakespeare led a life of allegory; his works are the comments on it.
O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings
Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel’s song!
Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed
The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;/ And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Love in a hut, with water and a crust, / Is – Love forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust.
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity…
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving – I should be exquisitely...
Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world – there I am a child – there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance – I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child – Some think me middling, others...
Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
Point me out the way / To any one particular beauteous star.
When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.
Turn the key deftly in the oil ”¨d wards, / And seal the hush ”¨d Casket of my Soul.
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory!
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
He ne’er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? / Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,