The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
Wisdom sits with children round her knees.