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.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.