Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

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

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Dreams, books, are each a world.