Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

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

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

Far from the world I walk, and from all care.