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

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!

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.