Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.

Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.