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.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.