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

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

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.