So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours - John Keats

one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast, that wheather there be shine, or gloom o'er cast, They always must be with us, or we die.

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