Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty