In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego

I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.

To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.

Works of genius are the first things in the world.

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