Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, - John Keats

Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.

Life is but a day;
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
From a tree’s summit.