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.

I want a brighter word than bright

My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness - if I had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor - but as I am I must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibers of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.