[Poetry] is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
Nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose- a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
I belong to an ancient, idle, wild, and useless tribe… I am a storyteller.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.
Dreams take us to levels we would otherwise be afraid to strive for.
Men have conceived a twofold use of sleep; it is a refreshing of the body in this life, and a preparing of the soul for the next.