Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
[L]ike thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born.
He hath awakened from the dream of life.
Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.
A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.