Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

Wisdom sits with children round her knees.

And I am happy when I sing.

One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.