Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From

As With Narrow-necked Bottles; The Less They Have In Them, The More Noise They Make In Pouring Out.

Thou Wert My Guide, Philosopher, And Friend.

The Season When To Come, And When To Go, To Sing, Or Cease To Sing, We Never Know.

Here Hills And Vales, The Woodland And The Plain Here Earth And Water Seem To Strive Again, Not Chaos-like Together Crushed And Bruised, But, As The World, Harmoniously Confused: Where Order In Variety We See, And Where, Though All Things Differ, All Agree.

"with Ev'ry Pleasing, Ev'ry Prudent Part, Say, What Can Chloe Want?"-she Wants A Heart.