I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning – and yet it must be.

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike taskOf pure ablution round earth’s...

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided,...

Leaving great verse unto a little clan.

Poetry should… should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,/ And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; / Round many western islands have I been / Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

A proverb is no proverb to you until life has illustrated it

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect

Health is my expected heaven.

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass / Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

I have good reason to be content,for thank God I can read andperhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;/ And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

It keeps eternal whispering around / Desolate shores.

Souls of poets dead and gone, / What Elysium have ye known, / Happy field or mossy cavern, / Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? / Have ye tippled drink more fine / Than mine host’s...

Turn the key deftly in the oil Ӭd wards, / And seal the hush Ӭd Casket of my Soul.

Point me out the way / To any one particular beauteous star.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becksOur ready minds to fellowship divine,A fellowship with essence; till we shine,Full alchemiz’d, and free of space. BeholdThe clear religion of heaven!

Aí de quando a paixão é simultaneamente modesta e arrebatada!

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.

I think I shall be among the English poets after my death.

Virgin-choir to make delicious moan / Upon the midnight hours.

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden eyed despairs

You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world – there I am a child – there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance – I...

There’s a blush for won t, and a blush for shan’t, and a blush for having done it: There’s a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.

I see a lilly on thy brow, / With anguish moist and fever dew; / And on thy cheek a fading rose / Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads / Full...

No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer’s day Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest

I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me

Upon the honeyed middle of the night.

Life is but a day:A fragile dewdrop on its perilious wayFrom a tree’s summit

Beauty is truth; truth beauty.

Parting they seemed to tread upon the air,/ Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart / Only to meet again more close.

It’s very difficult to convince anyone of reckless driving when the bus wasn’t moving.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

`If I should die’, said I to myself, `I have left no immortal work behind me – nothing to make my friends proud of my memory – but I have loved the principle of beauty...

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

All breathing human passion far above, / That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,/ A burning forehead and a parching tongue.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now...

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.