Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

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

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

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

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

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