Much of our ignorance is of ourselves. Our eyes are full of dust. Prejudice blinds us.

The grave, where sets the orb of being, sets To rise, ascend, and culminate above Eternity's horizon evermore.

Within a bony labrinthean cave, Reached by the pulse of the aerial wave, This sibyl, sweet, and Mystic Sense is found, Muse, that presides o'er all the Powers of Sound.

O loving woman, man's fulfillment, sweet, Completing him not otherwise complete! How void and useless the sad remnant left Were he of her, his nobler part, bereft.

The power to bind and loose to Truth is given: The mouth that speaks it is the mouth of Heaven, The power, which in a sense belongs to none, Thus understood belongs to every one.

True love is humble, thereby is it known; Girded for service, seeking not its own; Vaunts not itself, but speaks in self-dispraise.

O, beautiful and grand, My own, my native land! Of thee I boast: Great empire of the west, The dearest and the best, Made up of all the rest, I love thee most.

Words are freeborn, and not the vassals of the gruff tyrants of prose to do their bidding only. They have the same right to dance and sing as the dewdrops have to sparkle and the stars to shine.

I value science--none can prize it more, It gives ten thousand motives to adore: Be it religious, as it ought to be, The heart it humbles, and it bows the knee.

Poetry is unfallen speech. Paradise knew no other, for no other would suffice to answer the need of those ecstatic days of innocence.

Eternity! How know we but we stand On the precipitous and crumbling verge Of Time e'en now, Eternity below?

Do not live WITH what you had done...Live FOR what you have to do.

Somehow there was a lack of communication - She thought he said: "Till debt do us part."

Who cares about great marks left behind? We have one life... just one. Our life. We have nothing else.

Our success and happiness depends not on simply knowing where we stand, but in where we are wanting to go.

Poets play with words to keep themselves sane

The typical rock fan is not smart enough to know when he is being dumped on.

I've always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication, a layer of protection from all the sharp thoughts in your head.

Love is a worn-out word. People love their cat, they love their house. I've never been in love with anyone but myself.

I'm a big fan of Henri Cartier-Bresson, the French photographer who had that whole "decisive moment" approach to taking pictures, of having multiple elements line up within the frame.

With this darkness all around me, I like to be liked. In this emptiness and fear, I want to be wanted. Cause I love to be loved.