Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

... for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst - that I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.