“The everlasting universe of thingsFlows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom--Now lending splendour, where from secret springsThe source of human thought its tribute brings.”

“No more alone through the world's wilderness,Although I trod the paths of high intent,I journeyed now: no more companionless”

“All things exist as they are perceived: at least in relation to the percipient. 'The mind is its own place, and of itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.' But poetry defeats the curse which binds us to be subjected to the accident of surrounding impressions. And whether it spreads its own figured curtain or withdraws life's dark veil from before the scene of things, it equally creates for us a being within our being.”

“I have sent books and music there, and all / Those instruments with which high spirits call / The future from its cradle, and the past / Out of its grave, and make the present last / In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, / Folded within their own eternity.”

“A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.”

“Love withers under constraints. Its very essence is liberty; it is comparable neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear; it is there most pure, perfect, and unlimited where its votaries are in confidence, equality and unreserve.”

“To hope until hope creates from its very own wreck the thing it contemplates.”