The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn

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

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.

The child shall become father to the man.