Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.