“The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.”

“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon…”

“The gloomy companions of a disturbed imagination, the melancholy madness of poetry without the inspiration.”

“Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”

“For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he…”

“Why must I forever lose, forever forgo profit that is my due, Sunk in the gloom of evenings…”