Date: 1817, 1818

"My mind became the book through which I grew / Wise in all human wisdom, and its cave, / Which like a mine I rifled through and through, / To me the keeping of its secrets gave"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817, 1818

There is "One mind, the type of all, the moveless wave / Whose calm reflects all moving things that are"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817, 1818

"With ever-changing notes it floats along, / Till on my passive soul there seemed to creep / A melody, like waves on wrinkled sands that leap"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817

"Not until my dream became / Like a child's legend on the tideless sand. / Which the first foam erases half, and half / Leaves legible"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817, 1818

"Look on your mind--it is the book of fate-- / Ah! it is dark with many a blazoned name / Of misery--all are mirrors of the same"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817, 1818

"But the dark fiend who with his iron pen / Dipped in scorn's fiery poison, makes his fame / Enduring there, would o'er the heads of men / Pass harmless, if they scorned to make their hearts his den."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817

"A sense of real things come doubly strong, / And, like a muddy stream, would bear along / My soul to nothingness."

— Keats, John (1795-1821)

Date: 1817

"Ah! when will the yoke of Custom--Custom, the blind tyrant, of which all the other tyrants make their slave--ah! when will that misery-perpetuating yoke be shaken off?--when, when will Reason be seated on her throne?"

— Bentham, Jeremy (1748-1832)

Date: 1817

"In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads; in which it was agreed, that my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure...

— Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834)

Date: 1817

"On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair / A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain; / And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare / Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain."

— Keats, John (1795-1821)