A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy

To Stay Youthful, Stay Useful.

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

Whatever The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth -whether It Existed Before Or Not

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.