O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance,

Music's Golden Tongue Flatter'd To Tears This Aged Man And Poor.

... The Open Sky Sits Upon Our Senses Like A Sapphire Crown - The Air Is Our Robe Of State - The Earth Is Our Throne, And The Sea A Mighty Minstrel Playing Before It.

I Never Can Feel Certain Of Any Truth, But From A Clear Perception Of Its Beauty.

Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds, Ye Ardent Marigolds.

Praise Or Blame Has But A Momentary Effect On The Man Whose Love Of Beauty In The Abstract Makes Him A Severe Critic On His Own Works.