“When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.”

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

O aching time! O moments big as years!

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.

Death is Life’s high meed.

Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.

You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.

I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.

Touch has a memory. O say, love say, What can I do to kill it and be free In my old liberty?

Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

Many have original minds who do not think it – they are led away by custom!