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

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.