Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet

Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.

If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their writings!

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.