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

Wisdom married to immortal verse.

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.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

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.

Small service is true service, while it lasts.