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

If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.

Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?

Works of genius are the first things in the world.

That which is creative must create itself.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.