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.

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

The child is father of the man.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.