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Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf; He shows his clothes! alas! he shows himself. O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers, What hides the body oft the mind discovers.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.

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.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury--he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?

No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

I long to believe in immortality. . . . If I am destined to be happy with you here--how short is the longest life. I wish to believe in immortality--I wish to live with you forever.

Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy?

Oh for a life of sensations rather than thoughts.

A proverb is no proverb to you until life has illustrated it.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright, And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?

Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown.