Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.