Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

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

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.

The child is the father of man.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.