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.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.