Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.
Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.
The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.
I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
O aching time! O moments big as years!
Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!