As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.

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

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.