The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.