A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
Truth takes no account of centuries.
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
"One impulse from a vernal wood
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.