Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
Earth has not anything to show more fair.
Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!