The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
A tale in everything.
Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.