And mighty poets in their misery dead.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.