One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
Earth has not anything to show more fair.
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.