Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid

I Have So Much Of You In My Heart.

Fast Fading Violets Cover'd Up In Leaves; And Mid-may's Eldest Child, The Coming Musk-rose, Full Of Dewy Wine, The Murmurous Haunt Of Flies On Summer Eves.

Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty

Load Every Rift With Ore.

With A Great Poet The Sense Of Beauty Overcomes Every Other Consideration, Or Rather Obliterates All Consideration.