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

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

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

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.