"One impulse from a vernal wood

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

The child is father of the man.

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: - feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.