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

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

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.