In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is. - William Wordsworth

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array.