Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.