Silence, beautiful voice.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

Rain, rain, and sun! A rainbow in the sky!