Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

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

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.