A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

Dreams, books, are each a world.

We murder to dissect.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.