One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

The child is father of the man.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.

A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.