You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

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.