When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.