“Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.Methinks, its motion in this hush of natureGives it dim sympathies with me who live,Making it a companionable form,Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling SpiritBy its own moods interprets, every whereEcho or mirror seeking of itself,And makes a toy of Thought.”

“IIA grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,      A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,      Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,          In word, or sigh, or tear — O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,      All this long eve, so balmy and serene,Have I been gazing on the western sky,      And its peculiar tint of yellow green:And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye!And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,That give away their motion to the stars;Those stars, that glide behind them or between,Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grewIn its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;I see them all so excellently fair,I see, not feel how beautiful they are!III          My genial spirits fail;          And what can these availTo lift the smothering weight from off my breast?          It were a vain endeavour,          Though I should gaze for everOn that green light that lingers in the west:I may not hope from outward forms to winThe passion and the life, whose fountains are within.”

“Day after day, day after day,We stuck, nor breath nor motion;As idle as a painted shipUpon a painted ocean.”

“Nature has her proper interest; and he will know what it is, who believes and feels, that every thing has a life of its own, and that we are all one life.”

“Sympathy constitutes friendship; but in love there is a sort of antipathy, or opposing passion. Each strives to be the other, and both together make up one whole.”

“Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,Glimmered the white moonshine.[...]Day after day, day after day,We stuck, nor breath nor motion;As idle as a painted shipUpon a painted ocean.”

“The intelligible forms of ancient poets,The fair humanities of old religion,The Power, the Beauty, and the MajestyThat had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished;They live no longer in the faith of reason;But still the heart doth need a language; stillDoth the old instinct bring back the old names;Spirits or gods that used to share this earthWith man as with their friend; and at this day'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,And Venus who brings every thing that's fair.”