That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.