Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:Its loveliness increases;It will neverPass into nothingness.

O fret not after knowledge — I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge — I have none, and yet the Evening listens.

Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings.

For sure so fair a place was never seen; Of all that ever charmed romantic eye.

Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.

The problems of the world cannot possibly be solved by skeptics or cynics whose horizons are limited by the obvious realities. We need men who can dream of things that never were.

I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand’s...

St Agnes’ Eve – Ah, bitter chill it was! / The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; / The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, / And silent was the flock in woolly...

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale / Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, / Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star, / Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.

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.

When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all Ye...

Shakespeare led a life of allegory; his works are the comments on it.

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; / There are four seasons in the mind of man.

When I Have Fears That I May Cease To BeWhen I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact’ry, Hold like...

Touch has a memory.

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face, / Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance.

Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine – Unweave a rainbow

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

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.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art–Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.

That men, who might have tower’d in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of timeAll chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been...

I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a...

Thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, / In some melodious plot / of beechen green, and shadows numberless, / Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty

A man’s life of any worth is a continual allegory – and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life – a life like the scriptures- figurative

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and...

There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.

Then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children

Their smiles, / Wan as primroses gathered at midnight / By chilly-fingered Spring.

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity -it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

And sure in language strange she said, / I love thee true.

He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,/ In Provence called `La belle dame sans merci’.

Yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.

My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk

Oh what can ail thee, wretched wight, / Alone and palely loitering; / The sedge is withered from the lake, / And no birds sing.

The Public – a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

Music’s golden tongue Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory!

A drainless shower / Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme power; / ‘Tis might half slumbering on his own right arm.

No one can usurp the heights…But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy waysI cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs...

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye.

Soon, up aloft, / The silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide.

Call the world if you please `The Vale of Soul-making’.

It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.