The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
"One impulse from a vernal wood
Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.