Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
A power is passing from the earth.
And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?