Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

What is a Poet? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.

How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

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

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.