In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!