Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.

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.

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.