“When I examine my mind and try to discern clearly in the matter, I cannot satisfy myself that there are any such things as poetical ideas. No truth, it seems to me, is too precious, no observation too profound, and no sentiment too exalted to be expressed in prose. The utmost I could admit is that some ideas do, while others do not, lend themselves kindly to poetical expression; and that those receive from poetry an enhancement which glorifies and almost transfigures them, and which is not perceived to be a separate thing except by analysis.”

“The Laws Of God, The Laws Of ManThe laws of God, the laws of man,He may keep that will and can;Now I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me;And if my ways are not as theirsLet them mind their own affairs. Their deeds I judge and much condemn,Yet when did I make laws for them?Please yourselves, say I, and theyNeed only look the other way.But no, they will not; they must stillWrest their neighbour to their will,And make me dance as they desireWith jail and gallows and hell-fire.And how am I to face the oddsOf man’s bedevilment and God’s?I, a stranger and afraidIn a world I never made.They will be master, right or wrong;Though both are foolish, both are strong, And since, my soul, we cannot fly To Saturn or Mercury,Keep we must, if keep we can,These foreign laws of God and man.”

“Stone, steel, dominions pass,Faith too, no wonder;So leave alone the grassThat I am under.”

“I sought them far and found them, The sure, the straight, the brave, The hearts I lost my own to, The souls I could not save They braced their belts about them, They crossed in ships the sea, They sought and found six feet of ground, And there they died for me.”

“With Rue My Heart Is LadenWith rue my heart is ladenFor golden friends I had,For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.”

“Into my heart an air that killsFrom yon far country blows:What are those blue remembered hills,What spires, what farms are those?That is the land of lost content,I see it shining plain,The happy highways where I wentAnd cannot come again.”

“Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.”