Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.

When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

I cannot exist without you - I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again - my Life seems to stop there - I see no further. You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.