Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.
His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.