Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.