Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
May books and nature be their early joy!
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
A tale in everything.