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

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

Let us not go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there for a knowledge of what is not to be arrived at, but let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive, budding patiently under the eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble insect that favours us with a visit - sap will be given us for meat and dew for drink.

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.