The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

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