Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And Quite Forget.

Four Seasons Fill The Measure Of The Year; There Are Four Seasons In The Minds Of Men.

How Astonishingly Does The Chance Of Leaving The World Improve A Sense Of Its Natural Beauties Upon Us. Like Poor Falstaff, Although I Do Not 'babble,' I Think Of Green Fields; I Muse With The Greatest Affection On Every Flower I Have Know From My Infancy - Their Shapes And Colours Are As New To Me As If I Had Just Created Them With Superhuman Fancy.

Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard Are Sweeter.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My Friends.