I scarcely remember counting upon happiness—I look not for it if it be not in the present hour—nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

The poetry of the earth is never dead.