And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.