Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.

A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.