Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

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

That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

May books and nature be their early joy!

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.