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.

I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.

His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.

Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest? 'Tis that every mother's son Travails with a skeleton. Lie down in the bed of dust; Bear the fruit that bear you must; Bring the eternal seed to light, And morn is all the same as night.