This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?