Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.