Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
That queen of secrecy, the violet.
Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.