Many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.

That which is creative must create itself.

O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.

... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.