She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.

It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

I find I cannot exist without Poetry

An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever; and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!