For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.