Poetry Is A Mirror Which Makes Beautiful

I Think That The Leaf Of A Tree, The Meanest Insect On Which We Trample, Are In Themselves Arguments More Conclusive Than Any Which Can Be Adduced That Some Vast Intellect Animates Infinity.

O Wild West Wind, Thou Breath Of Autumn's Being. Thou, From Whose Unseen Presence The Leaves Dead Are Driven, Like Ghosts From An Enchanter Fleeing.

The Crime Of Inquiry Is One Which Religion Never Has Forgiven.

Life, Like A Dome Of Many-coloured Glass, Stains The White Radiance Of Eternity.

The Pleasure That Is In Sorrow Is Sweeter Than The Pleasure Of Pleasure Itself.