It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores

We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't, and a blush for having done it: There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.

Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.

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

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

To silence gossip, don't repeat it.