There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
All that we behold is full of blessings.
The child is father of the man.
The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.