Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

I never was in love - yet the voice and the shape of a woman has haunted me these two days.

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

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.