"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.

The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

There is creation in the eye.