No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
The ocean is a mighty harmonist.