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

The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people"- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.

I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.

Here dead lie we because we did not choose to live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; but young men think it is, and we were young.

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

Good religious poetry... is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.

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.