I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
We murder to dissect.
To be young was very heaven!
Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.