The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Dreams, books, are each a world.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.

The child is the father of man.

For nature then to me was all in all.