Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

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

Worse than idle is compassion If it end in tears and sighs.

Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!

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

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.