His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed.
If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
That which is creative must create itself.