And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine.

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

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.

If our hours were all serene, we might probably take almost as little note of them, as the dial does of those that are clouded.

I don't know why I would not be serene.