I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.

When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered o'er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: "Thru Time I'll save my love!" he said. . . yet Beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead. . . -Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: "Who'd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet there". . . So all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth June, and no one ever know that you were Beauty for an afternoon.

He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread of being alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the elite of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy.

I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.

It is not merely enough to have the ability to be persistant, you must also have the ability to start over.

So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star.

For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.