A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

Silence, beautiful voice.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.