Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu

Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.

O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.