Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green glade ... Such was that happy garden-state.

Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.

Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.

And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.