He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!