She Hurried At His Words,

Poetry Should Surprise By A Fine Excess And Not By Singularity, It Should Strike The Reader As A Wording Of His Own Highest Thoughts, And Appear Almost A Remembrance.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?