Impossible is for the unwilling.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

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

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity...

When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".

Life is divine Chaos. It's messy, and it's supposed to be that way.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

... for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst - that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!

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

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

Time, that aged nurse, rocked me to patience.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

Tall oaks branch charmed by the earnest stars Dream and so dream all night without a stir.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time / I have been half in love with easeful Death...

...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free?

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

Real are the dreams of gods, and soothly pass their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love—but if you should deny me the thousand and first—‘t would put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

One of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

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

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

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath;

When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.

Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.

I will clamber through the clouds and exist.

--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

I have a habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am now leading a posthumous existence.

Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .

The air is all softness.

Scenery is fine -but human nature is finer

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

Love is my religion--I could die for it.

I find I cannot exist without Poetry

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.

Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

I must choose between despair and Energy──I choose the latter.

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories.