O For Ten Years, That I May

Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art-- Not In Lone Splendour Hung Aloft The Night And Watching, With Eternal Lids Apart, Like Nature's Patient, Sleepless Eremite.

A Drainless Shower Of Light Is Poesy: 'tis The Supreme Of Power; 'tis Might Half Slumbering On Its Own Right Arm.

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

Nothing Is Finer For The Purposes Of Great Productions Than A Very Gradual Ripening Of The Intellectual Powers.

A Man Should Have The Fine Point Of His Soul Taken Off To Become Fit For This World.