By our own spirits are we deified:We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

The union of the mathematician with the poet, fervor with measure, passion with correctness, this surely is the ideal

Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.

They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.