When by my solitary hearth I sit,When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit,And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

Life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree’s summit.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on.

If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

To SorrowI bade good morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind.