The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.