Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.

The wealthiest man among us is the best

And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.

I've watched you now a full half-hour; Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.