The Author Of Biographia Literaria Was Already

O Let Me Be Awake, My God! Or Let Me Sleep Alway.

A Bitter And Perplexed "what Shall I Do?" Is Worse To Man Than Worse Necessity.

God! Sing, Ye Meadow-streams, With Gladsome Voice! Ye Pine-groves, With Your Soft And Soul-like Sounds! And They Too Have A Voice, You Piles Of Snow, And In Their Perilous Fall Shall Thunder, God!

He Knows Well The Evening Star, And Once When He Awoke, In A Most Distressful Mood (some Inward Pain Had Made Up That Strange Thing, An Infant's Dream), I Hurried With Him To Our Orchard Plot, And He Beheld The Moon, And Hushed At Once. Suspends His Sobs And Laughs Most Silently. While His Fair Eyes, That Swam With Undropped Tears, Did Glitter In The Yellow Moonbeam.

An Ear For Music Is Very Different From A Taste For Music. I Have No Ear Whatever; I Could Not Sing An Air To Save My Life; But I Have The Intensest Delight In Music, And Can Detect Good From Bad.