(Title: To the Moon) Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,-- And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet

Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.

Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.

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