Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven, a spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Alla given, to lift from earth our low desire.
Wordsworth – stupendous genius! Damned fool! These poets run about their ponds though they cannot fish.
Why I came here – I know not – where I shall go it is useless to enquire – in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds – stars – systems – infinity – why should I be anxious about an atom?
What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.
We have progressively improved into a less spiritual species of tenderness – but the seal is not yet fixed though the wax is preparing for the impression.
To withdraw myself from myself (oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.