The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are open paradise.

One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate.

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood; And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

A fool's paradise is a wise man's hell.

A fool's paradise is a wise man's hell

Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.