Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

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

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.