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

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.