Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

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

Stop thinking for once in your life!

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

One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.

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.