Free as a bird to settle where I will.

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.

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

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

A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.