In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold
One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.
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.