Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

That which is creative must create itself.

I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love—but if you should deny me the thousand and first—‘t would put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

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