The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till It Is Experienced.

Wine Is Only Sweet To Happy Men.

X. I Saw Pale Kings And Princes Too, Pale Warriors, Death-pale Were They All; They Cried—“la Belle Dame Sans Merci Hath Thee In Thrall!” Xi. I Saw Their Starved Lips In The Gloam, With Horrid Warning Gaped Wide, And I Awoke And Found Me Here, On The Cold Hill’s Side. Xii. And This Is Why I Sojourn Here, Alone And Palely Loitering, Though The Sedge Is Wither’d From The Lake, And No Birds Sing.

On A Lone Winter Evening, When The Frost Has Wrought A Silence.

Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings.