The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.
Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?