Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.