Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

I always think a great speaker convinces us not by force of reasoning, but because he is visibly enjoying the beliefs he wants us to accept.

The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.

I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.