But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother’s grave.
Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
To the solid ground Of Nature trusts the mind which builds for aye.
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer’s joy.
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
Nature’s old felicities.
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth’s diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.