Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

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.

O dearer far than light and life are dear.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.