And mighty poets in their misery dead.
Earth has not anything to show more fair.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.