Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.

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.

That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

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.