How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

I want a brighter word than bright

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.