The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.