“For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, ‘Thou art no Poet may’st not tell thy dreams?’ Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.”

“This living hand, now warm and capableOf earnest grasping, would, if it were coldAnd in the icy silence of the tomb,So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nightsThat thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood,So in my veins red life might stream again,And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is--I hold it towards you.”

“Thou art a dreaming thing,A fever of thyself.”

“Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?---"On death”

“Tall oaks branch charmed by the earnest stars Dream and so dream all night without a stir.”

“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!”

“The imagination may be compared to adams dream. He awoke and found it truth.”