The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

Wisdom sits with children round her knees.