Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
If something is not beautiful, it is probably not true.
My creed is love and you are its only tenet.
Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.
O aching time! O moments big as years!