Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.