Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

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

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.