Hail to thee blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skilled to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.