The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.