Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.