I Have An Habitual Feeling Of My

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.

Sweet Are The Pleasures That To Verse Belong, And Doubly Sweet A Brotherhood In Song.

The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone!

I Have Loved The Principle Of Beauty In All Things.

It Appears To Me That Almost Any Man May Like The Spider Spin From His Own Inwards His Own Airy Citadel.