Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.