I was too much in solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought, as an only resource. - John Keats

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
Save from one gradual solitary gust
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
As if the ebbing air had but one wave.

Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.