How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!

Truth takes no account of centuries.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

A tale in everything.

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.