Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.