Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.