We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!