Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, woman friendship.
What is now proved was once only imagin’d.
The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
One thought fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ’d is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
The fox provides for himself. but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
The crow wish’d every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ’d.
Enough! or Too much.

Selected from William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Levity.com

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day,
All in the morning betime,
And I, a maid, at your window,
To be your Valentine.

The young man rose and donned his clothes,
And dupped the chamber door,
Let in the maid that out, a maid,
Never departed more.

Quoth she, Before you tumbled me,
You promised me to wed,
That would I have done, by yonder sun,
If thou hadst not come to my bed.

By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Away and fie for shame.
Young men will do it, when they come to it,
By cock, they are to blame.

Hamlet, Act IV, Scene V

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, –
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

There are two gates for dreams; the first, they say,
Of horn, gives easy exit to true spirits.
The other gleams perfect, carved of white ivory,
But sends false dreams from the dead to the world above.

(Virgil, Aeneid 6.893-897)