For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

A beam in darkness: let it grow.