O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

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

The child is the father of man.

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

Dreams, books, are each a world.