At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light
Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.