Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.