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

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

The child is father of the man.

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

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

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.