All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

All My Clear-eyed Fish, Golden, Or Rainbow-sided, Or Purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, Or Finn'd With Silvery Gauze... My Charming Rod, My Potent River Spells.

O For Ten Years, That I May Overwhelm / Myself In Poesy; So I May Do The Deed / That My Own Soul Has To Itself Decreed.