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

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.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.