Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted/  The mind is its own place, and in it self Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven/out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry/ Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. /Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind/ A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. / You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you/ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact./ All of us get lost in the darkness, dreamers learn to steer by the stars/ Don’t ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to/ Even the genius asks questions/ Always be a poet, even in prose/ I’ve been born to represent, for that I’ve been heaven sent And I meant, every word/ The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth / A person would have to change himself in order to be a living example of what he’s singing about/ And though I should beware, still I just don’t care