Of Planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.

Love's very pain is sweet

Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.

Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.