There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?

For always roaming with a hungry heart.

God and Nature met in light.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.

We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.