I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel.

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom --one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory!

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous -- who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing...

Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.