A poet who has not produced a good poem before he is twenty-five, we may conclude cannot, and never will do so.

The waves beside them danced; but they/ Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:/ A poet could not but be gay,/ In such a jocund company.

Sweet childish days, that were as long as twenty days are now

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.

To be a poet at twenty is to be twenty: to be a poet at forty is to be a poet