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

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

To the very last, he [Napoleon] had a kind of idea; that, namely, of la carrière ouverte aux talents, - the tools to him that can handle them.

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.

The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.