Saint Valentine is past: Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?
And, as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.
O! how ripe in show thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow.
Now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, and yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger; at whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there, troop home to churchyards.
Truth make all things plain.
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
My soul is in the sky.
