Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

The child shall become father to the man.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.