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

Ever let thy Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home

God of the golden bow, / And of the golden lyre, / And of the golden hair, / And of the golden fire, / Charioteer / Of the patient year, / Where – where slept thine ire?

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu

Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

What occasions the greater part of the world’s quarrels? Simply this: Two minds meet and do not understand each other in time enough to prevent any shock of surprise at the conduct of either party

O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel’s song!

I wish I could say Tom was any better. His identity presses upon me so all day that I am obliged to go out.

I always made an awkward bow.

Where’s the face / One would meet in every place? / Where’s the voice, however soft, / One would hear so very oft?

Poetry should… should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Don’t be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience. Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed

An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people- it takes away the heat and fever; and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the Burden of the Mystery

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.

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale / Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, / Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star, / Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.

The latest dream I ever dreamed / On the cold hill side.

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;/ And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

The Public – a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

I think I shall be among the English poets after my death.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, / Is – Love forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced; even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, / Too much gazed at?

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity…

No one can usurp the heights…But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becksOur ready minds to fellowship divine,A fellowship with essence; till we shine,Full alchemiz’d, and free of space. BeholdThe clear religion of heaven!

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

Nothing ever becomes real ’til it is experienced.

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.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?—“On death

Point me out the way / To any one particular beauteous star.

The poetry of earth is never dead:

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.

And sure in language strange she said, / I love thee true.

Turn the key deftly in the oil Ӭd wards, / And seal the hush Ӭd Casket of my Soul.

I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning – and yet it must be.

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.

O cruelty, / To steal my Basil-pot away from me!

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,