Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.

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