I May Not Hope From Outward Forms

Poetry Is Certainly Something More Than Good Sense, But It Must Be Good Sense, At All Events, Just As A Palace Is More Than A House, But It Must Be A House, At Least.

During The Act Of Knowledge Itself, The Objective And Subjective Are So Instantly United, That We Cannot Determine To Which Of The Two The Priority Belongs.

A Single Thought Is That Which It Is From Other Thoughts As A Wave Of The Sea Takes Its Form And Shape From The Waves Which Precede And Follow It.

Bells, The Poor Man's Only Music.

The Moving Moon Went Up The Sky, And Nowhere Did Abide: Softly She Was Going Up, And A Star Or Two Beside.