That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .