The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

Why should not grave Philosophy be styled. Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, A dreamer, yet more spiritless and dull?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

The cattle are grazing,Their heads never raising;There are forty feeding like one!

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.