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.

My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.

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

Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.

The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.