Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings
I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.
We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we can find nowhere in his works, that "ridicule is the test of truth."