Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
Death is Life's high meed.
When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".
O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.