For My Own Purpose, I Defined The

It Seems To Me That This Is The True Test For Poetry: - That It Should Go Beneath Experience, As Prose Can Never Do, And Awaken An Apprehension Of Things We Have Never, And Can Never, Know In The Actuality.

I Hated The Things They Believe In, The Things They So Innocently And Charmingly Pretended. I Hated The Sanctimonious Piety That Let People Hurt Helpless Creatures. I Hated The Prayers And The Hymns - The Fountains And The Red Images That Coloured Their Drab Music, The Fountains Filled With Blood, The Sacrifice Of The Lamb.

Too Much Principle Is Often More Harmful Than Too Little.

... The Life Of The Mind Is Reality, And Love Without Romantic Illumination Is A Spiritless Matter.

Irony Is An Indispensable Ingredient Of The Critical Vision; It Is The Safest Antidote To Sentimental Decay.