The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.

Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood, So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is-- I hold it towards you.

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

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

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.