Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
A tale in everything.
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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.