The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. But hearing often-times
The still, sad music of humanity.
To a Skylark.
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
Peter Bell.
Prologue. St. 1.
There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon.