A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

The air is all softness.

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.