Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience. - John Keats

The poetical character... is not itself — it has no self — it is every thing and nothing — It has no character — it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it fair or foul, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated. — It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philospher, delights the camelion poet.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

Tall oaks branch charmed by the earnest stars Dream and so dream all night without a stir.