He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
Dreams, books, are each a world.
Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.