Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
Death is the quiet haven of us all.