A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

The same that oft-times hath charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

Love is my religion – I could die for it.

Where’s the face / One would meet in every place? / Where’s the voice, however soft, / One would hear so very oft?

O Sorrow, / Why dost borrow / Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May?

A solitary sorrow best befits / Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.

She press’d his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine—Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile madeThe tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade

Here are sweet-peas, on tip-toe for a flight:/ With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,/ And taper fingers catching at all things, / To bind them all about with tiny rings.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm / Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed / That my own soul has to itself decreed.

Out went the taper as she hurried in; / Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died.

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

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world

Bright StarBright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains...

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun/ And she forgot the blue above the trees,/ And she forgot the dells where waters run,/ And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;/ She had no knowledge when the day was done,/ And the new morn she saw not: but in peace/ Hung over her sweet...

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

You are always new, The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Let us not go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there for a knowledge of what is not to be arrived at, but let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive, budding patiently under the eye of Apollo, and

Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.

It is true that in the height of enthusiasm I have been cheated into some fine passages; but that is not the thing.

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast, that...

Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, / Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; / Conspiring with him how to load and bless / With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star’d at the Pacific and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien

Once upon a time, the American met the Automobile and fell in love. Unfortunately, this led him into matrimony, and so he did not live happily ever after.

She looked at me as she did love, / And made sweet moan.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter

Nothing ever becomes real ’til it is experienced.

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, / Too much gazed at?

But were there ever any / Writhed not at passed joy?

Pass into nothingness.

A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no identity – he is continually informing and filling some other body.

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci

To SolitudeO Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,— Nature’s observatory—whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep ’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap Startles the...

I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

Don’t be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience. Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some

The latest dream I ever dreamed / On the cold hill side.

The automobile changed our dress, manners, social customs, vacation habits, the shape of our cities, consumer purchasing patterns, common tastes and positions in intercourse

Mortality / Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? / Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy...

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,What can I do to kill it and be free?

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

I am fit for nothing but literature.

There is a budding morrow in midnight, / There is a triple sight in blindness keen.