The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.