The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.