Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

The Eagle, he was lord above

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.