Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge