I Think I Shall Be Among The

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

He Who Saddens At Thought Of Idleness Cannot Be Idle, / And He's Awake Who Thinks Himself Asleep.

Whatever The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth -whether It Existed Before Or Not