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.

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

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.