Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

We murder to dissect.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.

In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.