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

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.