Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

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.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

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.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.