There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shore,There is society, where none intrudes,By the deep sea, and music in its roar:I love not man the less, but Nature more

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes...

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shore,There is society, where none intrudes,By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:I love not Man the less, but Nature more,From these our interviews, in which I stealFrom all I may be, or have been before,To mingle with the Universe, and feelWhat I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

We'll Go No More A-rovingSo, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart still be as loving,And the moon still be as bright.For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.

When people say, "I've told you fifty times," / They mean to scold, and very often do; / When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes," / They make you dread that they 'II recite them too;In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; / At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, / But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, / A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

The mind which is immortal makes itselfRequital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end,And its own place and time; its innate sense,When stripped of this mortality, derivesNo colour from the fleeting things without,But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

Too high for common selfishness , he couldAt times resign his own for others' good,But not in pity - not because he ought,But in some strange perversity of thought,That swayed him onward with a secred prideTo do what few or none could do beside;And this same impulse would, in tempting time,Mislead his spirit equally to crime;So much he soared beyond, or sank beneath,The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe And longed by good or ill to seperateHimself from all who shared his mortal fate.

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trustIn one fond breast, to which his own would melt,And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.