"One impulse from a vernal wood
He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.