My chest of books divide amongst my friends. - John Keats

And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,
- Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead.
Awake! arise! my love and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.

"Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance".