Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty,-that Is All

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

Dance And Provencal Song And Sunburnt Mirth! On For A Beaker Full Of The Warm South, Full Of The True, The Blushful Hippocrene! With Beaded Bubbles Winking At The Brim, And Purple-stained Mouth.

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.

Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.