The child is father of the man.

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

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.