Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.