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.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.