There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.

The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

The child is the father of man.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.