Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!

The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

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.