When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
Let Nature be your teacher
A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.