But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.