How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

I do what many dream of, all their lives

Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.

Most progress is most failure.

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!

Genius has somewhat of the infantine; but of the childish not a touch or taint.

Pippa's Song The year's at the spring The day's at the morn Morning's at seven, The Hill side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven- All's right with the world