In common things that round us lieSome random truths he can impart, --The harvest of a quiet eyeThat broods and sleeps on his own heart.
A day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
When a damp/ Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand/ The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew/ Soul-animating strains - alas, too few!
A slumber did my spirit seal;/ I had no human fears:/ She seemed a thing that could not feel/ The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force;/ She neither hears nor sees;/ Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. . .