I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
William WordsworthThe fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
William Wordsworth