To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?