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.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.

For always roaming with a hungry heart.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.