What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.
There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.