Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.