O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world improve a sense of its natural beauties upon us. Like poor Falstaff, although I do not 'babble,' I think of green fields; I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have know from my infancy - their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with superhuman fancy.

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.