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

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.