The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
And I am happy when I sing.
Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.