I suppose that all of us have a Romantic streak in us. I am not speaking of "romantic" in the Hollywood-Valentine's Day sense. Rather, I am thinking of the Wordsworth-Keats-Bronte sort of Romanticism that is, according to the OED, characterized by "an emphasis on feeling, individuality, and passion rather than classical form and order." To wit: sublime vistas, windy heights, misty vales, vast watery depths, immortality and mortality, love and Love (requited and unrequited, found and lost, fleeting and deathless).
Our tendency toward Romanticism of this sort usually waxes in our teens and twenties, when the World seems invested with a great deal of passion (with passion's attendant ups and downs). In those years, one is liable to find oneself exclaiming (or sighing) "O, World!" quite often. After that, Romanticism begins to wane as reality inevitably sets in. But we never entirely lose it. Nor should we. It would be sad if we did. (Within reason, the Stoic in me says. Skip the mid-life crises and the "lifestyle" -- horrible word! -- options of the modern age.)
The following poem by A. S. J. Tessimond describes very well, I think, the Romantic in us all.
Portrait of a Romantic
He is in love with the land that is always over
The next hill and the next, with the bird that is never
Caught, with the room beyond the looking-glass.
He likes the half-hid, the half-heard, the half-lit,
The man in the fog, the road without an ending,
Stray pieces of torn words to piece together.
He is well aware that man is always lonely,
Listening for an echo of his cry, crying for the moon,
Making the moon his mirror, weeping in the night.
He often dives in the deep-sea undertow
Of the dark and dreaming mind. He turns at corners,
Twists on his heel to trap his following shadow.
He is haunted by the face behind the face.
He searches for last frontiers and lost doors.
He tries to climb the wall around the world.
A. S. J. Tessimond, Selection (1958).