Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.

Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

I will clamber through the clouds and exist.