‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ – that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion – I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more – I could be martyred for my religion – Love is my religion – I could die for that.
I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections, and the truth of imagination.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify – so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.