I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman — they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence - John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases;
It will never
Pass into nothingness.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.

Life is divine Chaos. It's messy, and it's supposed to be that way.