My Eyes Make Pictures When They Are

The Poet, Described In Ideal Perfection, Brings The Whole Soul Of Man Into Activity, With The Subordination Of Its Faculties To Each Other According To Their Relative Worth And Dignity. He Diffuses A Tone And Spirit Of Unity, That Blends, And (as It Were) Fuses , Each Into Each, By That Synthetic And Magical Power, To Which I Would Exclusively Appropriate The Name Of Imagination.

I Wish Our Clever Young Poets Would Remember My Homely Definitions Of Prose And Poetry; That Is, Prose = Words In Their Best Order; - Poetry = The Best Words In The Best Order.

Shakespeare Knew The Human Mind, And Its Most Minute And Intimate Workings, And He Never Introduces A Word, Or A Thought, In Vain Or Out Of Place; If We Do Not Understand Him, It Is Our Own Fault.

Veracity Does Not Consist In Saying, But In The Intention Of Communicating The Truth.

Like One, That On A Lonesome Road Doth Walk In Fear And Dread, And Having Once Turned Round Walks On, And Turns No More His Head; Because He Knows, A Frightful Fiend Doth Close Behind Him Tread.