I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
William WordsworthOur meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
William WordsworthMen are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
William Wordsworth