I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

There is creation in the eye.

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.