The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
The child is the father of man.
For nature then to me was all in all.