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.

The poetry of earth is never dead:

Here lies one whose name was writ on water.

Scenery is fine -but human nature is finer

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill.

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...

I always made an awkward bow.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist / Wolf ‘s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine.

O soft embalmer of the still midnight, / Shutting, with careful fingers and benign / Our gloom-pleased eyes.

God of the golden bow, / And of the golden lyre, / And of the golden hair, / And of the golden fire, / Charioteer / Of the patient year, / Where – where slept...