That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.

Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.