Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

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

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.