Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.

Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.

Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.

Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on.

If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their writings!

It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead- When the cloud is scattered The rainbows glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.

Every epoch, under names more or less specious, has deified its peculiar errors.