Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.

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.

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