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.

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

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.

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

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.