Land Of Lost Gods And Godlike Men.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

I Really Cannot Know Whether I Am Or Am Not The Genius You Are Pleased To Call Me, But I Am Very Willing To Put Up With The Mistake, If It Be One. It Is A Title Dearly Enough Bought By Most Men, To Render It Endurable, Even When Not Quite Clearly Made Out, Which It Never Can Be Till The Posterity, Whose Decisions Are Merely Dreams To Ourselves, Has Sanctioned Or Denied It, While It Can Touch Us No Further.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.