Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

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.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.