For nature then to me was all in all.

A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.

A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

What is a Poet? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.