Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

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

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.

Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.