That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

In years that bring the philosophic mind.