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

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

And I am happy when I sing.