I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.

A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.

Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

An intellectual hatred is the worst.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.