Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

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

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

Rest and be thankful.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!