Thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, / In some melodious plot / of beechen green, and shadows numberless, / Singest of summer in full-throated ease. |
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought / As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! |
Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel. |
Thy plaintive anthem fades / Past the near meadows, over the still stream, / Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep / In the next valley-glades: / Was it a vision or a waking dream? / Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep? |
To set budding more, / And still more, later flowers for the bees, / Until they think warm days will never cease, / For summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. |
To Sorrow / I bade good-morrow, / And thought to leave her far away behind; / But cheerly, cheerly, / She loves me dearly; / She is so constant to me, and so kind. |
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards, / And seal the hushèd Casket of my Soul. |
Upon the honeyed middle of the night. |
Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser - Death is Life's high meed |
Virgin-choir to make delicious moan / Upon the midnight hours. |
We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author. |
What occasions the greater part of the world's quarrels? Simply this: Two minds meet and do not understand each other in time enough to prevent any shock of surprise at the conduct of either party |
What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth. |
When I behold, upon the night's starred face, / Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. |
When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain |