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.

Small service is true service, while it lasts.

His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

Nature's old felicities.

Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.