Here must thou be, O man, Strength to thyself - no helper hast thou here - Here keepest thou thy individual state: No other can divide with thee this work, No secondary hand can intervene To fashion this ability. 'Tis thine, The prime and vital principle is thine In the recesses of thy nature, far From any reach of outward fellowship, Else 'tis not thine at all.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.