My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.