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.

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

Can man be free if woman be a slave?

Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!