Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As

The Air Is All Softness.

O Magic Sleep! O Comfortable Bird, That Broodest O'er The Troubled Sea Of The Mind Till It Is Hush'd And Smooth!

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe Without You.

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself - In Endymion, I Leaped Headlong Into The Sea, And Thereby Have Become Better Acquainted With The Soundings, The Quicksands, And The Rocks, Than If I Had Stayed Upon The Green Shore, And Piped A Silly Pipe, And Took Tea And Comfortable Sdvice.