But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

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

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.