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.
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!
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 upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet..Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves The coming musk-rose, full...
Soon, up aloft, / The silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide.
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist / Wolf ‘s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine.
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity…
To AutumnSeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss’d cottage trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.
I wish to beleave in immortality-I wish to live with you forever.
Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, the curtains of the morning clouds; the chairs and sofa stuffed with cygnet’s down; the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winander Mere, I should not feel...
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness — if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor — but as I am I...
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, / Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.
O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel’s song!
I would jump down Etna for any public good – but I hate a mawkish popularity.
Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed