At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.

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

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.