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.

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

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

Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.