Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

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.

A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!

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.