The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."