* * * * *
_Tintern Abbey_.
Sensations sweet
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
* * * * *
That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.
* * * * *
That blessed mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened.
* * * * *
The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
* * * * *
The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.
But hearing often-times
The still, sad music of humanity.
* * * * *
_To a Skylark_.
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
* * * * *
_Peter Bell_.
Prologue. St. 1.
There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon.
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