My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.
You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.