The grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead.
The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new?
No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer’s day Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon and eve’s one star, Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair.
Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don’t buy a canary and sing yourself.
You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour...
And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
The air is all softness.
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;.
For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget...
To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.
Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz’d, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven!
Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.
Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, – Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.