Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

We murder to dissect.

How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.