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

Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.