Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.