The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

O dearer far than light and life are dear.

Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

And I am happy when I sing.