Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Rest and be thankful.
Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
The child is the father of man.
And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.