Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

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

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

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.

Faith is a passionate intuition.