She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
William WordsworthI listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William WordsworthDreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
William Wordsworth