Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.

For nature then to me was all in all.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.