With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
On account of the stupidity of some people, or (if talent be a more respectable word), on account of their talent for misconception.
Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence whether much that is glorious whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
Invisible things are the only realities.
I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect – in terror.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul.