Bards Of Passion And Of Mirth, Ye

And Shade The Violets, That They May Bind The Moss In Leafy Nets.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness.

I Find That I Can Have No Enjoyment In The World But The Continual Drinking Of Knowledge. I Find There Is No Worthy Pursuit But The Idea Of Doing Some Good For The World.

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.