Authority forgets a dying king.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.