A drainless shower Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power; ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm. - John Keats

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful — a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity — he is continually informing — and filling some other body.

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.