Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

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

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.