Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.