"One impulse from a vernal wood
If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong;--be worthy of the grace of God.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.