My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude