Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
I scarcely remember counting upon happinessโI look not for it if it be not in the present hourโnothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.
I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
My chest of books divide amongst my friends.