He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sun rise.

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.

The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

May God us keep From Single vision and Newton's sleep.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.

Gratitude is heaven itself.