Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

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.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.