O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude...

Oh may I join the choir invisible / Of those immortal dead who live again / In minds made better by their presence.

The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern, that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel, that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety on the chords of emotion--a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge.

It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted.

Perfect love has a breath of poetry which can exalt the relation of the least-instructed human beings...