The child is the father of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

Truth takes no account of centuries.

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.