O aching time! O moments big as years!

Nothing ever becomes real till experienced – even a proverb is no proverb until your life has illustrated it

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, With the fine spell of words alone can save Imagination from the sable charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, ‘Thou art no Poet may’st not tell thy dreams?’ Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.