Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
There is creation in the eye.
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.