When I behold, upon the night's starred face, / Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance.

Away with old Romance! Away with novels, plots and plays of foreign courts; Away with love-verses, sugar'd in rhyme, the intrigues, amours of idlers; Fitted for only banquets of the night where dancers to late music slide; The unhealthy pleasures, ex

O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Oh what can ail thee, wretched wight, / Alone and palely loitering; / The sedge is withered from the lake, / And no birds sing.

Should ever the fine-eyed maid to me be kind; Ah! surely it must be whenever I find; Some flowery spot, sequestered, wild, romantic; That often must have seen a poet frantic.