And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

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

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever; and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.

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

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.