Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
Grasmere, England
The child is father of the man.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, / Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; / Little we see in Nature that is ours; / We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."
One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.
