The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.