Love betters what is best

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

I've watched you now a full half-hour; Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!