First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears - and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust - and we die too.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

The most fertile districts of the habitable globe are now actually cultivated by men for animals, at a delay and waste of aliment absolutely incapable of calculation

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.

Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, all that vain men imagine or believe, or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, we descanted.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.