Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.