The poetry of the earth is never dead.

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

Health is my expected heaven.

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings