Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

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.

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.