Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".
Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
All clean and comfortable I sit down to write.