His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed.

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

I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me.

I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love—but if you should deny me the thousand and first—‘t would put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through.

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

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