It keeps eternal whispering around / Desolate shores.

Lamenting what is lost is futile, not lamenting what is to lose is loss. Eternity!

To eat from both shores

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.

Should ever the fine-eyed maid to me be kind; Ah! surely it must be whenever I find; Some flowery spot, sequestered, wild, romantic; That often must have seen a poet frantic.