She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.