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.

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

What is more gentle than a wind is summer?

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.