The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

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

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

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.

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.