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.

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.

I have so much of you in my heart.

... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.

--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death