Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.