The Feel Of Not To Feel It,

I Do Think Better Of Womankind Than To Suppose They Care Whether Mister John Keats Five Feet High Likes Them Or Not.

There Is Nothing Stable In The World; Uproar's Your Only Music.

Music's Golden Tongue Flatter'd To Tears This Aged Man And Poor.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

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.