On A Lone Winter Evening, When The

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard Are Sweeter.

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

The Genius Of Shakespeare Was An Innate University.