And mighty poets in their misery dead.

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.

Nature's old felicities.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.