In poetry, in which every line, every phrase, may pass the ordeal of deliberation and deliberate choice, it is possible, and barely possible, to attain that ultimatum which I have ventured to propose as the infallible test of a blameless style; namely: its untranslatableness in words of the same language without injury to the meaning.

In politics, what begins in fear usually ends in folly.

In the hexameter rises the fountain’s silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round.

Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?

It is an ancient Mariner,

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. “By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

It was a miracle of rare device,

It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!