The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.