Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is

Meanwhile The Mind, From Pleasure Less, Withdraws Into Its Happiness; The Mind, That Ocean Where Each Kind Does Straight Its Own Resemblance Find; Yet It Creates, Transcending These, Far Other Worlds, And Other Seas; Annihilating All That's Made To A Green Thought In A Green Glade ... Such Was That Happy Garden-state.

And Yonder All Before Us Lie Deserts Of Vast Eternity.

How Could Such Sweet And Wholesome Hours Be Reckoned, But In Herbs And Flowers?

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness, Lady, Were No Crime.

My Love Is Of A Birth As Rare As 'tis, For Object, Strange And High; It Was Begotten By Despair Upon Impossibility.