'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb

Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,

That crowd away before the driving wind,

More ardent as the disk emerges more,

Resemble most some city in a blaze,

Seen through...

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;

And, as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd

With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:

Some chord in unison with what we hear

Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
...