Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
For nature then to me was all in all.
The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.