Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu

I scarcely remember counting upon happiness—I look not for it if it be not in the present hour—nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.

I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.

It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

My chest of books divide amongst my friends.