My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk.
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen.
Love is my religion – I could die for that.
Love in a hut, with water and a crust, is – Love, forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust; love in a palace is perhaps at last more grievous torment than a hermit’s fast.
Land and sea, weakness and decline, are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.
It appears to me that almost any Man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy Citadel.
Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.
If Poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves of a tree, it had better not come at all.
I will give you a definition of a proud man. He is a man who has neither Vanity nor Wisdom – one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair.
I think we may class the lawyer in the same natural history of Monsters; a green bag will hold as much as a lawn sleeve.
