Sweet is the lore which nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things — We murder to dissect. - William Wordsworth

One Lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.

Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion.