I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
I find I cannot exist without Poetry
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.