Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

We murder to dissect.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.