Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

What can I but enumerate old themes?

I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

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