The child is the father of man.
Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.