He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute, In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

The first group of songs which I give, on any program, are songs which I sing to please myself. They represent my musical taste.

And heaven had wanted one immortal song.

I can make the most tasteless reference at some point and then go into one of my most earnest songs of the repertoire.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Oh what can ail thee, wretched wight, / Alone and palely loitering; / The sedge is withered from the lake, / And no birds sing.