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.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

. . .this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

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