Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.

I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

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.

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.