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

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

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

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.