To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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.
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.