Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till Experienced –

How Sad It Is When A Luxurious Imagination Is Obliged In Self Defense To Deaden Its Delicacy In Vulgarity, And Riot In Things Attainable That It May Not Have Leisure To Go Mad After Things That Are Not.

No Stir Of Air Was There, Not So Much Life As On A Summer's Day Robs Not One Light Seed From The Feather'd Grass, But Where The Dead Leaf Fell, There Did It Rest.

With A Great Poet The Sense Of Beauty Overcomes Every Other Consideration, Or Rather Obliterates All Consideration.

Knowledge Enormous Makes A God Of Me.

O Magic Sleep! O Comfortable Bird, That Broodest O'er The Troubled Sea Of The Mind Till It Is Hush'd And Smooth!