To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

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

I never was in love - yet the voice and the shape of a woman has haunted me these two days.

With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.