Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

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

We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge.

With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.