The child is father of the man.

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.