Not A Having And A Resting, But

The Best Poetry Will Be Found To Have A Power Of Forming, Sustaining, And Delighting Us, As Nothing Else Can.

Say, Has Some Wet Bird-haunted English Lawn Lent It The Music Of Its Trees At Dawn?

And Thou, Who Didst The Stars And Sunbeams Know, Self-school'd, Self-scann'd, Self-honour'd, Self-secure, Didst Tread On Earth Unguess'd At. Better So! All Pains The Immortal Spirit Must Endure, All Weakness Which Impairs, All Griefs Which Bow, Find Their Sole Speech In That Victorious Brow.

The Pursuit Of Perfection, Then, Is The Pursuit Of Sweetness And Light.... He Who Works For Sweetness And Light United, Works To Make Reason And The Will Of God Prevail.

All The Live Murmur Of A Summer's Day.