The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

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

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.