Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.

Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.

There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.

Existence is not itself a good thing, that we should spend a lifetime securing its necessaries: a life spent, however victoriously, in securing the necessaries of life is no more than an elaborate furnishing and decoration of apartments for the reception of a guest who is never to come. Our business here is not to live, but to live happily.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.