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.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.