No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

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

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.