Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain clings cruelly to us.
Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings.
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, that broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mind till it is hush’d and smooth!
O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
O aching time! O moments big as years!
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain.
Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
My spirit is too weak – mortality weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, and each imagin’d pinnacle and steep of godlike hardship tells me I must die like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.
My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.
My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
