My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

Nature's old felicities.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.