Dreams and Imagination

No, there’s nothing half so sweet in life

Such sights as youthful poets dream

He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake … A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory.

Enter these enchanted woods,

My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,

I shot an arrow into the air,

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

I met a lady in the meads

Ever let the fancy roam,

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave

Happiness is not an ideal of reason but of imagination.

Were it not for imagination, Sir, a man would be as happy in the arms of a chambermaid as of a Duchess.

All argument is against it; but all belief is for it.

Castles in the air—they are so easy to take refuge in. And easy to build, too.

The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.

Where there is no imagination there is no horror.

Thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh just, subtle, and mighty opium!

Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art, as of life.

We live, as we dream—alone.

That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.

Oh Sleep! it is a gentle thing,

As idle as a painted ship