And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
William WordsworthWhen his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
William WordsworthHeaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
William Wordsworth