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

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they

I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever

A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.

When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.