I Find I Cannot Exist Without Poetry

Every Fresh Experience Points Out Some Form Of Error Which We Shall Afterwards Carefully Avoid.

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

Can Death Be Sleep, When Life Is But A Dream, And Scenes Of Bliss Pass As A Phantom By? ---"on Death

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.