Samuel Taylor Coleridge

“ Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou scann'st
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe !
Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the Wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! ”

“ Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean--
It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, methought,
Had build him there a Temple : the whole World
Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference :
No wish profan'd my overwhelméd heart.
Blest hour ! It was a luxury,--to be !
Ah ! quiet Dell ! dear Cot, and Mount sublime ! ”