No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance.

What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare

this extraordinary and memorable being, who, for all his humility, bore about him something of the primitive splendour and directness of the Elizabethan age

I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.