One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate.

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood; And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are open paradise.

A fool's paradise is a wise man's hell.

A fool's paradise is a wise man's hell

Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.