Tis the witching hour of night,
Or bed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen
For what listen they?

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.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.