The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune.