The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.